GREnVIEIE-nnDALL'WTraROP 


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TRANSLATIONS 


IN 

POETRY    AND  PROSE 

FROM  CELEBRATED 

GERMAN  WRITERS. 


WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY  NOTES 
BY 

HERMANN  BOKUM, 

INSTRUCTER  IN  GERMAN  IN  HARVARD  UNIVERSITY. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES  MUNROE  AND  COMPANY. 


M  DCCC  XXXVI, 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1836,  by  James 
MuNROE  &  Co.,  in  the  Clcrls's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of 
Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE  PRESS: 
METCALF,    TORRY,  AND  BALiLOU. 


PREFACE. 


Poetic  conception  springing  forth  from  the 
mind  in  a  poetic  form  is  poetry  in  the  highest 
sense  of  the  term.  In  every  part  of  the  poem 
you  may  discover  the  seal  of  inspiration  testi- 
fying to  the  original  coexistence  of  the  spirit 
and  of  the  form,  by  the  creation  of  which 
that  spirit  has  manifested  itself;  you  feel,  in 
short,  that  the  wJiole  is  the  spontaneous  and 
rich  outpouring  of  a  poetic  mind. 

Every  translation  of  this  highest  kind  of  po- 
etry can  present  only  an  approach  to  the  beauty 
of  the  original.  In  the  language  of  Boswell  : 
"  You  hear  the  same  tune,  but  it  is  not  the 
same  tone."  On  the  other  hand,  however, 
translations  from  poetic  prose  writings,  so  to 
speak,  which  by  modern  critics  have  been  hon- 


iv 

ored  indiscriminately  with  the  name  of  poetry, 
^  will  not  only  give  you  the  tune  —  to  continue 
the  metaphor  —  but  frequently  play  it  on  in- 
struments better  adapted  to  its  spirit  than  the 
original  itself 

Many  of  the  translations  in  this  volume,  and 
particularly  those  from  Gothe,  may  be  regarded 
as  belonging  to  the  former  class ;  while  those 
from  Herder,  for  instance,  will  find  a  place 
among  the  productions  last  mentioned. 

But  however  great  a  degree  of  pleasure  these 
translations  may  be  calculated  to  afford,  one  of 
the  principal  reasons,  which  has  given  rise  to 
this  publication,  is  to  be  found  in  the  hope, 
that  they  may  awaken  or  foster  in  the  reader  a 
lively  desire  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the 
originals. 

The  compilation  of  these  translations  has 
been  partly  occasioned  by  a.  habit  of  transcrib- 
ing such  short  productions,  as  it  might  be  de- 
sirable to  re-peruse  at  a  time,  when  the  original 
might  not  be  within  the  reach  of  the  compiler. 
It  is  owing  to  this  fact,  that  in  several  instances 


V 

it  is  out  of  his  power  to  state  the  sources  from 
which  these  translations  have  been  derived. 
Many  of  them  are  from  Taylor's  Historic 
Survey  of  German  Poetry,  from  Specimens  of 
the  German  Lyric  Poets,  and  from  various  re- 
views. But  a  few  of  the  prosaic  translations 
are  from  his  own  pen. 

The  biographical  notices  are  partly  abridged 
from  the  Encyclopedia  Americana,  and  partly 
from  Specimens  of  the  German  Lyric  Poets,  and 
a  few  other  sources. 

The  compiler  intends  to  have  this  little 
volume  succeeded  by  another,  which  is  to 
consist  principally  of  prose  translations  from 
his  own  pen. 


CONTENTS 


Page. 


The  Two  Muses   1 

To  Young   4 

My  Recovery        .       •       .       .       .       .       .  5 

The  Choirs         .......  6 

Aurora   9 

The  Dying  Swan     ......  11 

The  Wanderer  •       .  13 

Song    19 

The  Minstrel   20 

The  King  of  Thule    ......  22 

The  Apprentice  to  Magic   23 

Our  Joys                                                       .  27 

The  Erleking   .28 

Moon-Light   30 

The  Mermaid                                                   .  32 

The  Count  of  Hapsburg   34 

Thekla's  Song ;  or  the  Voice  of  a  Spirit        .       .  39 

The  Cranes  of  Ibicus   41 

To  the  Muse  '48 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots       .       •       .       .       .  49 

The  Fight  with  the  Dragon   51 

Ritter  Toggenburg   62 

The  Pilgrim   65 

The  Newyear's  Night  of  an  Unhappy  Man     .  67 

The  Moss- Rose   70 


viii 


Asaph   71 

The  Invitation   73 

Song   74 

Water-Piece   76 

Ellenore   77 

The  Wild  Hunter   90 

The  Menagerie  of  the  Gods      .       .       .       .'  98 

The  Song  of  the  Brave  Man       .       .       .  .101 

The  Oak  Trees  .       .       .       .       .       .       .  106 

On  Ranch's  Bust  of  Queen  Louisa        .       .       .  108 

Prayer  during  Fight   109 

Leave-Taking  from  Life   Ill 

Sword  Song                                                  .  112 

Lutzow's  Wild  Chase   116 

Good  Night        .   118 

To  Mrs.  Hemans.    From  the  Father  of  Theodore 

Korner   119 

Brandenburgh  Harvest  Song     ....  120 

Bath-Song  to  sing  in  the  Sound      ....  121 

The  Wanderer   123 

The  May  LiUes  to  Adelaide         .       .       .  .124 

Song   126 

Song   127 

A  Fragment      .       .       ...       .       .     '  .  128 

The  Passage   131 

Notes   133 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  TWO  MUSES. 

I  SAW  —  tell  me,  was  I  beholding  what  now 
happens,  or  was  I  beholding  futurity  ?  —  I  saw 
with  the  Muse  of  Britain  the  Muse  of  Germany 
engaged  in  competitory  race  —  flying  warm  to 
to  the  goal  of  coronation. 

Two  goals,  where  the  prospect  terminates, 
bordered  the  career  :  oaks  of  the  forest  shaded 
the  one ;  near  to  the  other  waved  palms  in  the 
evening-shadow. 

Accustomed  to  contest  stepped  she  from  Al- 
bion proudly  into  the  arena — as  she  stepped, 
when,  with  the  Grecian  Muse  and  with  her 
from  the  Capitol,  she  entered  the  lists. 

She  beheld  the  young  trembling  rival ;  who 
trembled,  yet  with  dignity;  glowing  roses  wor- 
thy of  victory  streamed  flaming  over  her  cheek, 
and  her  golden  hair  flew  abroad. 

B 


2 


Already  she  retained  with  pain  in  her  tumul- 
tuous bosom  the  contracted  breath  ;  already  she 
hung  bending  forwards  toward  the  goal ;  already 
the  herald  was  lifting  the  trumpet,  and  her  eyes 
swam  with  intoxicating  joy. 

Proud  of  her  courageous  rival,  prouder  of 
herself,  the  lofty  Britoness  measured,  but  with 
noble  glance,  thee,  Tuiskone  :  "  Yes,  by  the 
bards,  I  grew  up  with  thee  in  the  grove  of 
oaks  : 

"  But  a  tale  had  reached  me  that  thou  wast 
no  more.  Pardon,  O  Muse,  if  thou  beest  im- 
mortal, pardon  that  I  but  now  learn  it.  Yonder 
at  the  goal  alone  will  I  learn  it. 

"  There  it  stands.  Bat  dost  thou  see  the 
still  further  one,  and  its  crowns  also  ?  This 
represt  courage,  this  proud  silence,  this  look, 
which  sinks  fiery  upon  the  ground,  I  know  : 

"  Yet  weigh  once  again,  ere  the  herald  sound 
a  note  dangerous  to  thee.  Am  I  not  she,  who 
have  measured  myself  with  her  at  Thermopylae, 
and  with  the  stately  one  of  the  seven  hills?"' 

She  spake  :  the  earnest  decisive  moment  drew 
nearer,  with  the  herald.  "  I  love  thee,"  an- 
swered quick,  with  looks  of  flame,  Teutona, 
Britoness  :  I  love  tliee  to  enthusiasm  ; 


3 


But  not  warmer  than  immortality,  and  those 
palms  :  touch,  if  so  wills  thy  genius,  touch  them 
before  me ;  yet  will  I,  when  thou  seizest  it, 
seize  also  the  crown. 

"  And,  O  how  I  tremble !  O  ye  immortals, 
perhaps  I  may  reach  first  the  high  goal :  then, 
O  then,  may  thy  breath  attain  my  loose-stream- 
ing hair  ! " 

The  herald  shrilled.  They  flew  with  eagle- 
speed.  The  wide  career  smoked  up  clouds  of 
dust.  I  looked.  Beyond  the  oak  billowed  yet 
thicker  the  dust,  and  I  lost  them. 

Klopstock. 


4 


TO  YOUNG. 

Die,  aged  prophet:  lo  thy  crown  of  palms 
Has  long  been  springing,  and  the  tear  of  joy 

Quivers  on  angel-lids 

Astart  to  welcome  thee. 
Why  linger?   Hast  thou  not  already  built 
Above  the  clouds  thy  lasting  monument? 

Over  thy  night-thoughts  too 

The  pale  free-thinker's  watch, 
And  feel  there 's  prophecy  amid  the  song. 
When  of  the  dead-awakening  trump  it  speaks. 

Of  coming  final  doom, 

And  the  wise  will  of  heaven. 
Die :  thou  hast  taught  me  that  the  name  of  death 
Is  to  the  just  a  glorious  sound  of  joy: 

But  be  my  teacher  still, 

Become  my  genius  there. 

Ibid. 


5 


MY  RECOVERY. 

Recovery,  daughter  of  Creation,  too, 
Though  not  for  immortality  designed. 

The  Lord  of  life  and  death 

Sent  thee  from  heaven  to  me. 
Had  I  not  heard  thy  gentle  tread  approach. 
Not  heard  the  whisper  of  thy  welcome  voice, 

Death  had,  with  iron  foot, 

My  chilly  forehead  prest. 
'T  is  true,  I  then  had  wandered  where  the  earths 
Roll  around  suhs  ;  had  strayed  along  the  path 

Where  the  maned  comet  soars 

Beyond  the  armed  eye  ; 
And  with  the  rapturous  eager  greet  had  hailed 
The  inmates  of  those  earths,  and  of  those  suns  ; 

Had  hailed  the  countless  host, 

That  throng  the  comet's  disk  ; 
Had  asked  the  novice  questions,  and  obtained 
Such  answers  as  a  sage  vouchsafes  to  youth  ; 

Had  learned  in  hours  far  more 

Than  ages  here  unfold  ! 
But  I  had  then  not  ended  here  below, 
What,  in  the  enterprising  bloom  of  life, 

Fate  with  no  light  behest 

Required  me  to  begin. 
Recovery,  daughter  of  Creation  too. 
Though  not  for  immortality  designed, 

The  Lord  of  life  and  death 

Sent  thee  from  heaven  to  me. 

Ibid. 


6 


THE  CHOIRS. 

Dear  dream,  which  I  must  ne'er  behold  fulfilled, 
Thou  beamy  form,  more  fair  than  orient  day, 

Float  back,  and  hover  yet 

Before  my  swimming  sight. 

Do  they  wear  crowns  in  vain,  that  they  forbear 
To  realize  the  heavenly  portraiture? 
Shall  marble  hearse  them  all^ 
Ere  the  bright  change  be  wrought? 

Hail,  chosen  ruler  of  a  freer  world  ! 

For  thee  shall  bloom  the  never-fading  song, 

Who  bid'st  it  be.    To  thee 

Religion's  honors  rise. 

Yes  —  could  the  grave  allow  —  of  thee  I 'd  sing: 
For  once  would  Inspiration  string  the  lyre  — 

The  streaming  tide  of  joy. 

My  pledge  for  loftier  verse. 

Great  is  thy  deed,  my  wish.  He  has  not  known 
What 't  is  to  melt  in  bliss,  who  never  felt 

Devotion's  raptures  rise 

On  sacred  music's  wing: 

Ne'er  sweetly  trembled,  when  adoring  choirs 
Mingle  their  hallowed  songs  of  solemn  praise  ; 

And,  at  each  awful  pause. 

The  unseen  choirs  above. 


7 


Long  float  around  my  forehead,  blissful  dream ! 
I  hear  a  Christian  people  hymn  their  God, 

And  thousands  kneel  at  once, 

Jehovah,  Lord,  to  thee. 

The  people  sing  their  Saviour,  sing  the  Son  ; 
Their  simple  song  according  with  the  heart, 

Yet  lofty,  such  as  lifts 

The  aspiring  soul  from  earth. 

On  the  raised  eye-lash,  on  the  burning  cheek. 
The  young  tear  quivers  ;  for  they  view  the  goal, 

Where  shines  the  golden  crown. 

Where  angels  wave  the  palm. 

Hush !  the  clear  song  wells  forth.  Now  flows  along 
Music,  as  if  poured  artless  from  the  breast ; 

For  so  the  master  willed 

To  lead  its  channelled  course. 

Deep,  strong  it  seizes  on  the  swelling  heart. 
Scorning  what  knows  not  to  call  down  the  tear, 

Or  shroud  the  soul  in  gloom, 

Or  steep  in  holy  awe. 

Borne  on  the  deep  slow  sounds  a  holy  awe 
Descends.    Alternate  voices  sweep  the  dome, 

Then  blend  their  choral  force. 

The  theme  Impending  Doom, 

Or  the  triumphal  Hail  to  him,  who  rose, 
While  all  the  host  of  heaven  o'er  Sion's  hill 

Hovered,  and  praising  saw 

Ascend  the  Lord  of  Life. 


8 


One  voice  alone,  one  harp  alone,  besrins  ; 
But  soon  joins  in  the  ever-fuller  choir. 

The  people  quake.    They  feel 

A  glow  of  heavenly  fire. 

Joy!  joy!  they  scarce  support  it.    Rolls  aloud 
The  organ's  thunder  —  now  more  loud  and  more — 

And  to  the  shout  of  all 

The  temple  trembles  too. 

Enough  ;  I  sink.    The  wave  of  people  bows 
Before  the  altar — bows  the  front  to  earth  j 

They  taste  the  hallowed  cup. 

Devoutly,  deeply,  still. 

One  day,  when  rest  my  bones  beside  a  fane. 
Where  thus  assembled  worshippers  adore, 

The  conscious  grave  shall  heave, 

Its  flowreta  sweeter  bloom, 

And  on  the  morn  that  from  the  rock  He  sprang, 
When  panting  Praise  pursues  his  radiant  way, 

I  "11  hear  —  He  rose  a^ain 

Shall  vibrate  through  the  tomb. 

Ibid. 


9 


AURORA. 

Aurora  was  complaining  to  the  Gods  that, 
although  she  was  much  praised  by  men,  she 
was  little  beloved  or  visited  by  them,  and  least 
by  thoscfc  who  loudest  sang  her  praises.  "  Do 
not  grieve  about  thy  lot,  (said  the  Goddess  of 
Wisdom,)  is  it  not  the  same  as  mine?  —  and 
then,  (continued  she,)  look  at  those  who  slight 
thee,  and  at  the  rival  whom  they  prefer.  Be- 
hold them,  as  thou  passest,  floundering  in  the 
embrace  of  laziness,  and  decaying  both  in  body 
and  in  mind  ;  —  and  hast  thou  not  friends,  not 
adorers  enow?  The  whole  creation  worships 
thee;  all  the  flowers  awake  and  clothe  them- 
selves by  thy  roseate  beam  in  new  and  bridal 
beauty.  The  choir  of  birds  welcomes  thee, 
and  seems  intent  wholly  on  varied  arts  to  charm 
thy  transient  presence.  The  laborious  boor, 
and  the  industrious  sage,  never  disappoint  thee; 
they  quatf,  from  the  cup  which  thou  offerest, 
health  and  strength,  repose  and  life ;  doubly 
pleased  that  they  enjoy  thee  undisturbed,  and 
uninterrupted  by  the  prating  crowd  of  sleepy 
fools.  Dost  thou  consider  it  as  no  blessing  that 
the  unworthy  are  never  seen  among  thy  admir- 


10 

ers  ?  To  be  worshipped  without  profanation 
is  the  highest  prize  of  love  among  gods  and 
men." 

Aurora  blushed  at  her  thoughtless  murmurs. 
Let  every  beauty  aspire  to  her  fortune,  who 
equals  her  in  purity  and  innocence. 

Hbrder 


11 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 

"  Must  I  alone  then  be  dumb  and  songless," 
said  sighing  the  still  swan  to  himself,  and 
bathed  himself  in  the  brightness  of  the  fairest 
sunset,  "  almost  I  alone  in  the  whole  kingdom 
of  the  feathered  tribes.  I  envy  not,  indeed, 
the  voices  of  the  quacking  goose,  and  the 
clucking  hen,  and  the  screaming  peacock,  but 
thine,  O  soft  Philomel  !  —  I  envy  thee,  when  I, 
so  spell-bound  by  it,  more  slowly  draw  my 
waves,  and  linger,  intoxicated,  in  the  reflected 
brilliance  of  the  heavens  ;  how  would  I  sing  thee, 
golden  evening  sun  !  —  sing  thy  fair  light  and 
my  blessedness,  and  sink  into  the  mirror  of  thy 
rosy  face  and  die." 

In  still  rapture  the  swan  dived,  and  hardly 
rose  again  above  the  waves,  when  a  shining 
form,  which  stood  on  the  bank,  called  to  him. 
It  was  the  God  of  the  morning  and  evening 
sun,  the  beautiful  Phebus.  "  Kind,  lovely 
being,"  said  he,  the  prayer  is  granted  thee, 
which  thou  so  oft  hast  cherished  in  thy  secret 
breast,  and  which  could  not  before  be  granted 
thee."  Scarcely  had  he  said  the  v/ord,  when 
he  touched  the  swan  with  his  lyre,  and  accom- 


12 


panied  on  it  the  hymn  of  the  immortals.  The 
bird  of  Apollo  was  filled  with  rapture  by  these 
tones.  He  poured  forth  his  melting  strains  to 
the  strings  of  the  God  of  Beauty,  and  in  joy  and 
gratitude  sang  the  fair  sun,  the  glittering  sea, 
and  his  own  innocent  happy  life.  Soft  as  his 
form  was  the  harmonic  soncr !  —  lonor  waves 
he  drew  on  in  soft  dying  tones,  until  he  found 
himself  in  Elysium,  at  the  feet  of  Apollo,  in 
his  own  true  heavenly  beauty.  The  song  which 
was  denied  him  in  life,  had  become  his  Swan's 
song,  softly  dissolving  his  limbs ;  for  he  had 
heard  the  tones  of  the  Immortals  and  seen  the 
face  of  a  God.  Thankfully  he  bent  himself  at 
the  feet  of  Apollo,  and  heard  his  divine  tones, 
when  his  faithful  mate  entered,  who  had  la- 
mented him  in  sweet  songs  even  unto  death. 
The  Goddess  of  Innocence  made  them  both 
her  favorites,  and  they  form  the  fair  team  of  her 
shell-chariot,  when  she  bathes  in  the  sea  of 
youth. 

Be  patient  and  still  hoping  heart,  what  is 
denied  to  thee  in  life,  because  thou  couldst  not 
bear  it,  shall  be  given  thee  in  the  moment  of 
death. 

Ibid. 


13 


THE  WANDERER. 

WANDERER. 

God  bless  you,  woman,  and  the  sucking  child 
Upon  your  bosom  !   Here  I  '11  sit  awhile 
Against  the  rock;  and  at  the  elm-tree's  foot 
Lay  down  the  burden  that  has  wearied  me. 

WOMAN. 

What  business  brings  you  up  these  sandy  paths 
During  the  heat  of  day?   Have  you  brought  toys, 
Or  other  ware,  from  town  to  sell  i'  th'  country? 
You  seem  to  smile,  good  stranger,  at  my  question. 

WANDERER. 

I  bring  no  city-wares  about  for  sale. 
The  evening 's  very  sultry.    I 'm  athirst. 
Show  me,  good  woman,  where  you  draw  your 
water. 

WOMAN. 

Here,  up  these  steps  of  rock,  athwart  the  thicket. 
Do  you  go  first:  you  '11  soon  be  at  the  hut 
That  I  inhabit.    We  've  a  spring  hard  by  it. 

WANDERER. 

Traces  of  man's  arranging  hand  are  these! 
Thine  —  't  was  not,  liberal  Nature,  to  unite 
These  blocks  of  marble  thus  — 

WOMAN. 

A  little  further  


14 


WANDERER. 

A  mossy  architrave!   Almighty  Genius! 
E'en  upon  stone  canst  thou  imprint  thy  seal. 

WOMAN. 

A  little  higher  yet  — 

WANDERER. 

On  an  inscription 
I  've  set  a  daring  foot  !    TO  VENUS  AND  — 
Ye  are  effaced,  are  wandered  hence,  companions, 
Who  should  have  witnessed  to  posterity 
Your  master's  warm  devotion. 

WOMAN. 

Do  these  stones 
Surprise  you,  stranger?    Yonder,  by  my  hut. 
Are  many  more  such  stones. 

WANDERER. 

Where,  show  me  where? 

WOMAN. 

There,  to  the  left-hand,  as  you  quit  the  coppice. 
See  —  here  they  are. 

WANDERER. 

Ye  Muses  and  ye  Graces! 

WOMAN. 

This  is  my  hut. 

WANDERER. 

The  ruins  of  a  temple  ! 


15 


WOMAN. 

The  spring  beside  it  furnishes  our  water. 

WANDERER. 

Thou  hoverest,  ever-glowing,  o'er  thy  grave, 
Immortal  Genius  —  while  thy  masterpiece 
Crumbles  upon  thee. 

WOMAN. 

Stay,  I  '11  fetch  a  cup. 

WANDERER. 

Your  slender  forms  divine  the  ivy  girds. 
Ye  twin-born  columns,  who  still  lift  on  high 
A  sculptured  front  amid  surrounding  ruin: 
And,  like  thy  sisters,  thou  too,  lonely  shaft. 
Veiling  with  dusky  moss  thy  sacred  head, 
Look'st  down  in  mournful  majesty  upon 
The  broken  fallen  companions  at  thy  feet  ; 
They  lie  with  rubbish  soiled,  by  briars  shaded. 
The  tall  grass  waving  o'er  their  prostrate  forms: 
O  Nature!  canst  thou  thus  appreciate 
Thy  masterpiece's  masterpiece?  destroy. 
And  sow  with  thistles  thine  own  sanctuary? 

WOMAN. 

My  boy  is  fast  asleep.    Hold  him  a  minute. 
And  wait  beneath  the  poplar's  cooling  shade 
While  I  fetch  water.    Slumber  on,  my  darling. 

WANDERER. 

How  soft  his  sleep  whom  heavenly  health  im- 
bathes ! 


16 


Blest  infant — born  amid  antiquity's 
Sacred  remains  —  on  thee  her  spirit  rest! 
Whom  that  environs,  he  in  godlike  bliss 
Each  hour  enjoys.    Unfold,  thou  swelling  gem, 
Under  the  mild  beam  of  a  vernal  sun 
Outshining  all  thy  fellows  ;  and,  whene'er 
The  silken  husk  of  blossoms  falls,  appear 
A  blooming  fruit,  and  ripen  to  the  summer. 

WOMAN. 

God  bless  him,  does  he  sleep  ?    I  have  but  this, 
A  homely  crust  to  offer  you  to  eat 
With  the  cool  draught  I  bring. 

WANDERER. 

I  thank  you  much. 
How  green  and  lively  look  the  plants  about  us ! 

WOMAN. 

Ere  long  my  husband  will  return  from  labor, 
Stay  and  partake  with  us  our  evening  loaf. 

WANDERER. 

'T  is  here  you  dwell  ? 

WOMAN. 

Yes,  in  these  very  walls, 
My  father  built  our  cottage  up  himself, 
Of  tiles  and  stones  he  found  among  the  ruins  ; 
Here  we  all  dwelt.   He  gave  me  to  a  ploughman. 
And  died  within  our  arms.    Hope  of  my  life, 
My  darling,  see  how  playful 't  is  ;  he  smiles. 


17 


WANDERER. 

All  bounteous  nature,  ever  teeming  mother, 

Thou  hast  created  all  unto  enjoyment ; 

Like  a  good  parent  furnished  all  thy  children 

With  one  inheritance  —  a  hut,  a  home. 

High  on  the  architrave  the  swallow  builds. 

Unconscious  of  the  beauties  she  beclays ; 

The  golden  bud  with  webs  the  grub  surrounds, 

To  form  a  winter-dwelling  for  her  offspring : 

And  thou,  O  man,  between  antiquity's 

Sublimest  remnants,  patchest  up  a  cot  — 

Art  happy  among  tombs.  Farewell,  kind  woman. 

WOMAN. 

You  will  not  stay? 

W^ANDERER. 

God  bless  you  and  your  child! 

WOMAN. 

Good  journey  to  you. 

WANDERER. 

Whither  leads  the  road 
Across  yon  mountain  ? 

WOMAN. 

That 's  the  way  to  Cuma. 

WANDERER. 

How  far  may 't  be 
c 


18 


WOMAN. 

About  three  miles. 

WANDERER. 

Farewell ! 

Nature,  be  thou  conductress  of  mv  way, 
Guide  the  unusual  path  that  I  have  chosen 
Among  the  hallowed  graves  of  mighty  dead, 
And  mouldering  monuments  of  ages  gone  ; 
Then  to  a  home  direct  thy  wanderer's  step, 
To  some  asylum,  from  the  north  wind  safe, 
And  with  a  platane  grove  to  shade  the  noon. 
Where,  when  his  evening  steps  the  hut  revisit, 
A  wife  like  this  may  clasp  him  in  her  arms, 
The  nursling  smiling  at  her  happy  breast. 

GOTHE. 


19 


SONG. 

Know'st  thou  the  land,  where  citrons  scent  the 
gale, 

Where  glows  the  orange  in  the  golden  vale  ; 
Where  softer  breezes  fan  the  azure  skies  ; 
Where  myrtles  spring,  and  prouder  laurels  rise? 
Know'st  thou  the  land?  'tis  there  our  footsteps 
tend: 

And  there,  my  faithful  love,  our  course  shall  end. 

Know'st  thou  the  pile,  the  colonade  sustains, 
Its  splendid  chambers  and  its  rich  domains, 
Where  breathing  statues  stand  in  bright  array, 
And  seem,  "what  ails  thee,  hapless  maid," to  say? 
Know'st  thou  the  land?  'tis  there  our  footsteps 
tend  ; 

And  there,  my  gentle  guide,  our  course  shall  end. 

Know'st  thou  the  mount,  where  clouds  obscure 
the  day  ; 

Where  scarce  the  mule  can  trace  his  misty  way  ; 
Where  lurks  the  dragon  and  her  scaly  brood  ; 
And  broken  rocks  oppose  the  headlong  flood? 
Know'st  thou  the  land  ?  't  is  there  our  course 
shall  end  ! 

There  lies  our  way  —  ah,  thither  let  us  tend  ! 

Ibid. 


20 


THE  MINSTREL. 

"  What  melting  strains  salute  my  ear, 
Without  the  portal's  bound? 
Page,  call  the  bard  ;  —  the  song  we  '11  hear, 

Beneath  this  roof  resound." 
So  spake  the  king  ;  the  stripling  hies  ; 
He  quick  returns  ;  —  the  monarch  cries, 
"  Old  man,  be  welcome  here !  " 

"  Hail,  mighty  chiefs  of  high  renown  ; 

Hail,  beauteous,  matchless  dames, 
Whose  smiles  the  genial  banquet  crown, 

Whose  glance  each  breast  inflames! 
Ah,  scene  too  bright !  with  downcast  eyes. 
In  haste  I  check  my  fond  surprise, 

My  rash  presumption  own  !  " 

With  downcast  looks,  the  song  he  reared  ; 

The  full-toned  harp  replied  : 
The  knights  grew  fierce,  their  eye-balls  glared  ; 

Each  tender  fair  one  sighed. 
The  king  applauds  the  thrilling  strain, 
And  straight  decrees  a  golden  chain. 

To  deck  the  tuneful  bard. 

"  Be  far  from  me  the  golden  chain  ; 
111  suits  the  proffered  meed. 
To  some  bold  knight,  'mid  yonder  train, 
Be  then  the  gift  decreed. 


21 


Or,  let  the  upright  chancellor, 
The  load,  with  other  burdens,  bear  : 
To  me  such  gift  were  vain ! 

As  chants  the  bird  on  yonder  bough. 

So  flows  my  artless  lay  ; 
And  well  the  artless  strains  that  flow, 

The  tuneful  task  repay. 
Yet,  dare  I  ask,  this  boon  be  mine  ; 
A  goblet  fill  with  choicest  wine, — 

On  me  the  draught  bestow." 

He  lifts  the  cup  and  quaffs  the  wine : 
"  0  nectared  juice,"  he  crfes, 
"  O  blest  abode,  where  draughts  divine. 
Unvalued  gifts  ye  prize! 
Ah,  thank  your  stars,  with  heart  as  true, 
'Mid  all  your  joys,  as  I  thank  you. 
For  this  rich  cup  of  wine !  " 

Ibid. 


'2*2 


THE  KING  OF  THULE. 

There  lived  a  King  iu  Thule. 
He  loved  with  all  hi?  soul  ; 
And  she.  he  loved  so  truly.. 
Left  him  a  golden  bovs  l. — 

He  prized  it  past  all  measure. 
He  drained  ii  at  each  meal  ; 
His  eyes  wept  o'er  his  treasure, 
AVhene'er  he  drank  his  fill. 

He  thought  his  last  of  breathing, 
Told  all  his  cities  through  ; 
All  to  his  heir  bequeathing, 
But  not  the  bo-svl.  I  trow. 

In  his  castle,  near  the  ocean.. 
He  sat  J  his  knights  withal. 
Their  beards  were  all  in  motion, 
At  the  banquet,  in  the  hall. 

There  sat  this  dry  old  fellow. 
Quatied  Life's  last  warmth  with  glee 
And  the  sacred  bowl,  when  mellow, 
He  cast  into  the  sea. 

He  saw  it  sinking,  shining. 
Where  waves  around  it  roar  — 
His  eyes  thereo  er  declining, 
Drop  never  drank  he  more. 

Ib 


23 


THE  APPRENTICE  TO  MAGIC. 
I. 

Now  that  my  old  master-wizard 

Is  for  once  at  least  away  ; 
All  the  spirits  in  his  keeping 

Must  my  sovereign  will  obey. 
Watched  have  I  his  word  and  deed, 

Many  an  hour,  and  many  a  day, 
And,  with  strength  of  mind  and  head, 
Work  a  wonder  I  too  may — — 
Wander,  wander, 
Yonder,  yonder, 
To  the  brook  along  the  path: 
Bring  me  water, 
As  you  taught  are, 
Pour  it,  shower  it,  in  the  bath. 

II. 

Hither,  you  old  broomstick,  hither! 

You  have  been  a  willing  slave  ; 
Be,  as  heretofore  you  have  been, 

Ready,  stetidy,  quick,  and  brave  ; 
Stand  upon  two  legs,  and  carry 

Human  arms  and  head,  I  crave  ; 
Bring  a  pail,  and  fetch  me  water 

In  the  bath  my  limbs  to  lave. 
Wander,  wander, 
Yonder,  yonder, 


■24 


To  the  brook  along  the  path: 

Bring  me  water, 

As  you  taught  are. 
Pour  itj  shower  it,  in  the  bath. 

III. 

See,  he  "s  running  to  the  river. 

Dips  his  pail,  and  brings  it  back  ; 
Now  again  he 's  going  thither, 

And  is  hither  in  a  crack  ; 
Quick  as  Dghtning  he 's  returning, 

Water  I  no  longer  lack  : 
The  bathing  trough  is  running  over  ; 
You  may  cease  to  keep  the  track. 
Standstill!  stand  still  I 
I  've  had  my  fill. 
How  I  your  gifts  are  coming  yet. 
0  dear !  O  dear ! 
You  do  not  hear  : 
And  the  check-word  I  forget.  — 

IV. 

The  word,  which  when  the  work  is  over. 

We  utter  muttering  to  unmake 
The  mimic  man,  to  stop  his  journeys, 

And  bid  the  busy  body  take 
His  quiet  broomstick  form  again.  

The  garden  will  be  soon  a  lake. 
And  yet  he  -'s  bringing  fresh  supplies, 

He  '11  flood  the  cellars  —  how  I  quake. 
Not  any  longer 
Brave  the  stronger: 


25 


This  is  malice,  this  is  spite. 

How  fell  a  scowl ! 

How  deep  a  growl! 
I 'm  more  than  ever  in  a  fright. 

V. 

Cursed  broomstick,  deaf  as  deadness, 

Offspring  of  the  lowest  hell, 
Shall  your  master's  house  be  flooded  ? — ■- 

How  the  streaming  waters  swell: 
Over  every  single  threshold 

Flows  enough  to  fill  a  well  ; 
Be  again  the  stock  you  have  been,  . 
And  in  your  old  corner  dwell. 
Stand  still  J  stand  still! 
I 've  had  my  fill. 
Now  if  you  provoke  my  wrath, 
I  '11  seize  on  you, 
And  chop  in  two. 
Soon  this  axe  shall  work  you  scath. 

VI. 

What — coming  still  with  other  pailfuls, 

I  '11  fell  you,  goblin,  to  the  ground. 
Well-aimed,  by  Belzebub,  you 've  got 

At  last,  I  trust,  a  fatal  wound  ; 
And  willing,  nilling,  must,  I  fancy. 

Desist,  as  you  're  in  duty  bound. 
And  I  again  can  fetch  my  breath, 

And  look  a  little  freely  round.  

Woe  increases ! 
Both  the  pieces 


'26 


Stand  up  watermen  complete  : 

Xeither  tarries. 

Either  carries 
Pail  on  pail  with  restless  feet. 

TIL 

How  they  hurry,  flurry,  scurry  : 

Wet  and  wetter  is  the  hall. 
Cellars  flooded,  staircase  mudded, 

Double  deluges  appall. 

0  here  comes  the  good  old  master.  

Mister,  master,  hear  my  call. 

1  can  -t  bring  the  sj^rites  to  rest. 
Whom  I  was  able  to  inihrall. 

Besom,  besom. 

Don't  distress  him  ; 
To  your  corner  fast  and  faster. 

But  as  spirits, 

Wheo  the  time  fits. 
Hearken  onlj  to  your  master. 

I::iD. 


•27 


OUR  JOYS. 

There  fluttered  round  the  spring 
A  fly  of  filmy  wing, 

Libella,  lightly  ranging  ; 
Long  had  she  pleased  my  sight, 
From  dark  to  lovely  bright 

Like  the  cameleon  changing  : 
Red,  blue,  and  green, 
Soon  lost  as  seen. 
Oh  that  I  had  her  near  and  knew 
Her  real  changeless  hue  ! 

She  flutters  and  floats  —  and  will  for  ever  — 
But  hold  —  on  the  willow  she  '11  light  — 
There,  there  I  have  her!  I  have  her! 
And  now  for  a  nearer  sight  — 

I  look  —  and  see  a  sad  dark  blue  ; 
Thus,  Analyst  of  Joy,  it  fares  with  you.  — 

Ibid. 


28 


THE  ERLEKIXG. 

Who  rides,  who  rifles  in  a  night  so  wild? 
It  is  the  fond  father  with  his  child  ; 
It  clasps  him  close,  and  he  holds  it  fast. 
Close,  close  and  warm  from  the  biting  blast. 

Why  shrinks  he,  why  hides  he  his  face  in  his 
hands  r 

"  O  see,  father,  yonder  the  Erleking  stands. 

Grim  Lord  of  terror,  with  crown  and  spear." 
"  Peace,  peace,  dear  child,  there 's  nought  to 
fear." 

Come,  lovely  boy,  come,  let 's  away  ; 

I  '11  play  with  thee  the  live-long  day, 

With  sweetest  of  flowers  I  '11  crown  thy  head, 

And  the  loveliest  fairies  shall  guard  thy  bed. 

My  father,  dear  father,  and  dost  thou  not  hear 
What  the  Erleking  whispers  so  low  in  mine 
ear  r " 

Be  quiet,  my  son,  in  my  bosom  thou  "rt  lying, 
I  hear  but  the  wind  in  the  bar€  branches  sigh- 
ing." 

My  dearest  boy,  if  thou  "It  go  with  me 
My  daughters  shall  tend  thee  right  daintily. 
And  by  thee  their  nightly  watch  they  shall  keep, 
And  shall  sing,  and  shall  dance,  and  shall  rock 
thee  to  sleep. 


29 


"  My  father,  dear  father,  and  seest  thou  not 
The  Erleking's  daughters  in  yon  dark  spot?  " 

"I  see,  my  son,  but  the  grey  willow  trees  ; 
How  they  nod  and  they  bow  in  the  evening 
breeze." 

I  love  thee,  must  have  thee,  then  haste  to  obey  ; 
And  art  thou  not  willing  —  I  '11  tear  thee  away ! 
"O  father,  O  father!  now,  now  keep  thy  hold! 
The  Erleking  has  seized  me  —  his  grasp  is  so 
cold." 

Sore  trembled  the  father  ;  he  spurred  through 
the  wild, 

Clasping  close  to  his  bosom  his  shuddering  child; 
He  reaches  his  dwelling,  in  doubt  and  in  dread  ; 
But  clasped  to  his  bosom,  —  the  infant  was  dead. 

Ibid. 


30 


MOON-LIGHT. 

Scattered  o'er  the  starry  pole, 
Glimmers  Cynthia's  beam  ; 

Whispering  to  the  softened  soul, 
Fancy's  varied  dream. 

O'er  the  landscape,  far  and  nigh, 
Gleams  the  glowing  night ; 

Soft  as  Friendship's  melting  eye, 
Bends  its  soothing  light. 

Touched  in  turn,  by  joy  and  pain. 
Quick  responds  my  heart ; 

Floats,  as  Memory  paints  the  scene, 
'Twixt  delight  and  smart. 

Rivulet,  speed  thy  flowing  maze  ; 

So  my  years  have  flown ! 
Past  delights  thy  lapse  displays: 

Joys  for  ever  gone  ! 

Dear  the  transports  once  I  knew  ; 

Dear  and  loved  in  vain!  — 
Memory's  lingering,  fond  review. 

Turns  the  past  to  pain. 

Rivulet,  urge  thy  ceaseless  flow. 

Gurgling  speed  thee  on  ; 
Whispering  strains  of  plaintive  woe  ; 

Mournful  unison !  — 


31 


Whether,  at  the  midnight  scene, 
Swells  thy  troubled  source: 

Or,  along  the  flowery  green. 
Glides  with  gentler  course. 

Blest  the  man,  who,  timely  wise. 
Seeks  Retirement's  shade  : 

Blest,  whose  lot  a  friend  supplies. 
Partner  of  the  glade  ;  — 

Calmer  pleasures  there  invite  ; 

Joys,  nor  vain,  nor  loud  ; 
Joys,  that  erring  mortals  slight ; 

Joys,  that  shun  the  crowd ! 


32 


THE  MERMAID. 

The  sea-wave  falls  —  the  sea-wave  flows  ; 

Ou  lonely  rock  the  Fisher  lies, 

In  clear  cool  stream  his  hook  he  throws, 

And  views  the  bait  with  wistful  eyes  ; 

And  as  his  silent  task  he  plies, 

Behold  the  floods  apart  are  flung,  — 

And  where  the  circling  eddies  rise, 

A  mermaid's  form  has  upward  sprung. 

And  soft  her  tones  —  and  sweet  her  song:  — 
"0  Fisher,  why  my  train  decoy? 
With  craft  of  man  —  still  wise  in  wrong  — 
Why  seek  to  change  to  death  their  joy? 
O  wist  thou  here  what  tasks  employ  — 
What  bliss  the  tribes  of  ocean  know  — 
No  more  thy  days  should  care  annoy, 
But  peace  be  sought  these  waves  below. 

And  seeks  not  aye  the  glorious  sun. 
And  beauteous  moon,  our  watery  rest? 
And  springs  not  each  its  course  to  run. 
Wave-washed,  in  tenfold  glory  drest? 
And  charms  not  thee  in  Ocean's  breast 
This  nether  heaven  of  loveliest  blue?  — 
Charms  not  thine  own  fair  form  imprest 
In  liquid  limning  soft  and  true?  — 


33 


The  sea-wave  falls  —  the  sea-wave  flows  — 
At  length  around  his  feet  is  flung ; 
He  starts  —  the  flame  within  him  glows 
That  erst  on  love's  embraces  hung ! 
And  sweeter  yet  the  sea-maid  sung. 
And  sought,  half  met  the  charmed  shore  ; 
Her  arms  around  her  victim  flung  — 
And  ne'er  was  seen  that  fisher  more ! 

Ibid. 


34 


THE  COUNT  OF  HAPSBURG. 

'T  WAS  at  his  crowning  festival. 

Robed  in  imperial  state. 
In  Aix-la-Chapelle's  ancient  hall 

The  good  king  Rudolph  sate. 
His  viands  bore  the  Palatine, 
Bohemia  served  the  sparkling  wine. 

And  all  the  Elective  Seven 
Lowly  the  lord  of  earth  surround, 
As  the  glorious  sun  is  girt  around 

With  his  starry  choir  of  heaven. 

Crowds  from  the  high  balcony  gaze 

In  joy  tumultuous  pressing, 
And  mix  with  the  mounting  hymns  of  praise 

Full  many  a  murmured  blessing: 
For  ended  at  last  are  the  crownless  years, 
With  their  harvest  of  ruin,  of  blood  and  tears. 

Earth  owns  a  judge  once  more. 
Ended  at  last  is  the  reign  of  steel  ; 
No  more  the  fee])le  dread  to  feel 

The  gauntlet-grasp  of  power. 

And  the  Kaiser  uplifts  his  goblet  bright. 
As  he  speaks  with  blithesome  voice :  — 
"  Fair  is  the  feast,  and  proud  the  sight  j 
Mine  heart  might  well  rejoice: 


35 


Yet  miss  I  the  minstrel,  the  bringer  of  pleasure, 
The  soother  of  hearts  with  his  magic  measure, 

The  teacher  of  lore  divine. 
So  I  have  held  in  my  youthful  prime, 
And  the  lessons  I  learned  in  my  knightly  time 

As  Kaiser  shall  still  be  mine." 

In  long-flowing  robe,  through  the  courtly  crew. 

The  minstrel's  form  appears  ; 
His  locks  are  bleached  with  a  silver  hue. 

With  the  fullness  of  wasting  years. 
"  Sweet  melody  sleeps  in  the  golden  strings  ; 
The  minstrel  of  love  and  its  guerdon  sings. 

He  sings  of  the  Highest,  the  Best, 
Of  all  ye  can  covet  with  heart  or  eye  ; 
But  say  what  may  sort  with  the  majesty 

Of  my  Kaiser's  crowning  feast." 

"  I  rule  not  the  singer,"  was  Rudolph's  word, 
"  Nor  recks  he  of  earthly  power  ; 
He  stands  in  the  right  of  a  greater  Lord, 

And  obeys  the  inspiring  hour. 
As  the  storm-wind  sweeps  through  the  midnight 
air. 

One  knows  not  from  whence  it  is  borne,  or 
where  ; 

As  the  springs  from  a  soundless  deep  ; 
So  the  minstrel's  song  from  his  bosom  swells, 
Our  feelings  to  wake,  where  in  inmost  cells 

Of  the  heart  they  strangely  sleep." 


36 


Sudden  and  strong  the  Minstrel  plays, 

And  rapidly  flows  his  strain  :  — 
"  A  valiant  knight  to  the  chamois  chase 

Rode  forth  across  the  plain, 
Him  followed  his  squire  with  his  hunting-gear  ; 
When  a  tinkling  sound  accosts  his  ear 

On  a  meadow's  gentle  marge: 
'T  was  the  sacring  bell  that  nroved  before, 
And  a  priest,  who  the  Saviour's  body  bore,- 

Canie  next  with  his  hallowed  charge. 

And  the  Count  to  earth  has  bowed  him  low, 

His  head  all  humbly  bare, 
The  faith  of  a  Christian  man  to  show 

In  him  our  sins  who  bare. 
But  a  brooklet  brawled  o'er  the  meadow-side, 
High  swelled  by  the  Giessbach's  rushing  tide. 

The  wanderer's  path  it  stayed  ; 
And  softly  he  laid  the  host  adown, 
And  swiftly  he  doffed  his  sandal  shoon, 

The  brawling  brook  to  wade. 

Now  whither  away.'"'  the  Count  began. 

And  he  cast  a  wondering  glance. 
"  Sir  knight,  I  haste  to  a  dying  man. 

For  hea\^enly  food  who  pants: 
And  here  as  I  sought  my  wonted  way. 
The  stepping-stones  all  have  been  torn  away 

By  the  Giessbach's  w  hirling  force. 
Thus,  let  a  soul  salvation  miss. 
The  brook  with  naked  foot,  I  wis. 

Behoves  me  now  to  cross." 


37 


But  the  Count  set  him  up  on  his  knightly  steed, 

And  reached  him  the  bridle  gay, 
That  he  fail  not  to  solace  a  sinner's  need. 

Nor  the  holy  rite  delay. 
Himself  rode  forth  on  the  horse  of  his  squire 
To  share  in  the  chase  at  his  heart's  desire. 

The  other  his  way  pursued. 
And  thankfully  came  with  morning  red, 
And  humbly  back  by  the  bridle  led 

To  the  knight  his  courser  good. 

Now  saints  forfend,"  said  that  noble  knight, 
^'  I  should  e'er  bestride  him  more, 
In  reckless  chase,  or  heady  fight, 

My  Saviour's  self  that  bore  ! 
Mayest  thou  not  make  the  good  steed  thine  own, 
I  freely  devote  him  to  God  alone  ; 

I  give  it  to  him  who  gives 
To  man,  his  bond-slave,  breath  and  blood. 
And  earthly  honor,  and  earthly  good  ; 

In  whom  he  moves  and  lives." 

"  0  then,  high  Heaven,  whose  watchful  ear 

Inclines  to  the  poor  man's  vow, 
To  thee  give  honor  above  and  here, 

As  him  thou  hast  honored  now! 
Thou  noble  Count,  whose  knightly  brand 
AVidely  hath  waved  in  Switzerland, 

Seven  daughters  fair  are  thine: 
Each  shall  enrich  thine  ancient  stem 
With  the  dower  of  a  kingly  diadem. 

Sent  down  to  the  latest  line." 


38 


The  brow  of  the  Kaiser  is  bent  in  thought, 

As  he  dreamed  of  distant  years, 
Till  the  eye  of  that  aged  bard  he  caught, 

And  the  sense  of  his  song  appears. 
He  recalls  the  face,  so  long  unseen, 
And  veils  his  tears  with  his  mantle  sheen  : 

'T  is  the  priest  himself  is  here  ! 
All  eyes  are  turned  on  their  silent  lord, 
All  know  the  knight  of  the-  Giessbach's  ford. 

And  the  hand  of  Heaven  revere. 

Schiller. 


39 


THEKLA'S   SONG;   OR  THE   VOICE   OF  A 
SPIRIT. 

Ask'st  thou  my  home?  —  my  pathway  wouldst 
thou  know, 

When   from   thine   eye  my  floating  shadow 
passed  ? 

Was  not  my  work  fulfilled  and  closed  below ! 
Had  I  not  lived  and  lov^ed? — my  lot  was  cast. 

Wouldst  thou  ask  where  the  nightingale  is  gone, 

That  melting  into  song  her  soul  away, 
Gave  the  spring-breeze  what  witched  thee  in  its 
tone  ?  — 

But  while  she  loved,  she  lived,  in  that  deep  lay ! 

Think'st  thou  my  heart  its  lost  one  hath  not 
found  ?  — 

Yes?  we  are  one,  oh!  trust  me,  we  have  met. 
Where  nought  again  may  part  what  love  hath 
bound. 

Where  falls  no  tear,  and  whispers  no  regret. 

There  shalt  thou  find  us,  there  with  us  be  blest, 
If  as  our  love  thy  love  is  pure  and  true ! 

There  dwells  my  father,  sinless  and  at  rest. 
Where  the  fierce  murderer  may  no  more  pur- 
sue. 


40 


And  well  he  feels,  no  error  of  the  dust 

Drew  to  the  stars  of  Heaven  his  mortal  ken, 

There  it  is  with  us,  even  as  is  our  trust. 
He  that  believes,  is  near  the  holy  then. 

There  shall  each  feeling  beautiful  and  high, 
Keep  the  sweet  promise  of  its  earthly  day  ;  — 

Oh !  fear  thou  not  to  dream  with  waking  eye  ! 
There  lies  deep  meaning  oft  in  childish  play. 

Ibid. 


41 


THE  CRANES  OF  IBICUS. 

To  Corinth,  where  the  sons  of  Greece 
Forget  their  strifes  in  festal  peace, 
Went  Ibicus  the  games  to  see. 
And  win  the  wreath  of  poesy. 
Him  gave  the  Muse  the  honeyed  song 
That  from  his  mouth  so  sweetly  flows  j 
From  Rhegium,  on  lightsome  staff. 
Full  of  the  God  the  poet  goes. 

And  now  before  his  wearj'  eyes 
The  pillared  heights  of  Corinth  rise  ; 
And  in  the  grove  of  Poseidon 
He  walks  revering  and  alone, — 
All  still  as  death  ;  save  fluttering  cranes 
That  cut  the  air  with  pinions  strong, 
And  from  the  friendless  Northern  shores 
Flit  to  the  South,  a  darkening  throng. 

"  I  greet  ye  well,  ye  friendly  crew. 
That  with  me  o'er  the  waters  flew ! 
A  happy  omen  makes  the  same 
Our  path,  as  chance  has  made  our  aim. 
Alike  from  distant  shores  we  come. 
Alike  a  friendly  roof  we  pray, 
A  friendly  host  us  both  receive, 
And  be  the  helpless  stranger's  stay!" 


42 


Thus  walks  he  on  in  cheerful  mood 

Into  the  thickest  of  the  wood  ; 

Till  in  the  dark  and  narrow  way 

Two  murderous  hands  his  progress  stay. 

He  girds  him  manly  to  resist,  — 

He  deals  —  but  not  the  surest  blow  — 

The  hand  that  struck  the  poet's  lyre 

Was  weak  to  bend  the  archer's  bow. 

He  calls  on  men,  on  Gods  in  vain! 
The}^  hear  not  now  that  heard  his  strain  ; 
And  through  the  forest  far  and  near. 
No  living  motion  meets  his  ear. 
And  thus  I  must  neglected  die, 
On  foreign  strand  bewept  by  none. 
By  hand  of  reckless  ruffians  slain. 
And  none  my  murder  to  atone  !  " 

He  sinks  beneath  a  heavy  blow, 
His  dimmed  eye  may  not  see,  when  lo ! 
He  hears  the  whirring  of  the  cranes, 
That  sweep  across  the  darkening  plains. 

"  Hear  me,  ye  cranes,  that  fly  aloft. 
When  men  and  Gods  hear  not,"  he  saith,  — 

"  To  you  my  murderer's  cry  ascend !  "  — 
He  spake  and  breaks  his  eye  in  death. 

Next  day  his  naked  corpse  is  found, 
With  many  a  scar,  on  gory  ground. 
And  he  that  should  have  been  the  host. 
Sees  his  dear  guest  for  ever  lost. 


43 


"  And  must  I  see  thee  thus  my  guest, 
Whose  brow  with  the  victorious  pine 
r  hoped  to  bind,  with  poet's  fire 
Encircled,  and  with  glory's  shrine!  " 

And  the  guests  hear  it  with  a  moan 
At  the  glad  feast  of  Poseidon, 
And  universal  Greece  beweeps 
Her  bard  whose  l^^^re  for  ever  sleeps. 
The  people  rush  in  stormy  throngs 
Around  the  Prytanes  they  crowd, 
"Appease  the  manes  of  the  dead," 
They  cry,  "  with  the  foul  murderer's  blood!" 

But  where  the  trace  by  which  to  ken. 
Amid  the  flowing  throng  of  men. 
Amid  the  whirling  chariots  speed 
The  hand  that  did  the  bloody  deed? 
Did  reckless  robber  strike  the  blow. 
Or  him  some  secret  foe  waylay? 
No  God,  but  Helios,  may  tell 
Who  seeth  all  things  with  his  ray. 

Mayhap  he  walks  with  fearless  pace 
'Mid  the  free  sons  of  Grecian  race. 
And  heeds  not  the  avenger's  tread. 
In  car  of  Isthmian  glory  led. 
Mayhap  upon  the  sacred  floor 
He  impious  stands  where  Gods  have  been, 
Or  with  that  wave  of  men  is  borne, 
That  rolls  on  to  the  tragic  scene. 


44 

From  bench  to  bench  in  many  a  ring, 
(Beneath  them  groans  the  scaffolding) 
The  Grecian  tribes  from  far  and  near, 
Impatient  wait  with  eye  and  ear  ; 
And  like  the  ocean's  hollow  swell 
The  swarm  of  men  still  wider  grew, 
In  sweeping  circles  mounting  high. 
And  mingling  with  the  heavenly  blue. 

Who  counts  the  nations,  who  can  name 
That  to  this  feast  of  glory  came  ? 
From  Attic  and  from  Aulic  strand, 
From  Phocis,  and  from  Spartan  land. 
From  Asia's  far  distant  shore. 
From  isles  that  gem  the  middle  sea, 
They  come  with  holy  awe  to  hear 
The  chorus'  fearful  melody. 

The  Ancient  chorus  stern,  severe, 
Lo  from  the  distant  scene  appear ! 
And  with  a  slow  and  measured  pace, 
The  circle  of  the  stage  they  trace. 
No  mortal  women  walk  as  they. 
No  earthly  house  gave  birth  to  them  ; 
So  giant-like,  so  more  than  men, 
From  the  far  distant  scene  they  came ! 

A  robe  of  pitchy  black  they  wear. 
In  skinny  hand  a  torch  they  bear. 
That  with  a  murky  redness  glows  ; 
In  their  pale  cheeks  no  life-blood  flows  j 


45 


And  where  the  ringlets  gently  waving, 
Down  human  temples  kindly  well. 
There  snakes  and  adders  twine  their  knots, 
And  with  impatient  poison  swell. 

And  as  they  chase  the  fearful  round, 
Uplifts  their  hymn  its  solemn  sound, 
They  pierce  the  heart  with  threatful  strains, 
And  round  the  sinner  weave  their  chains. 
Sense-bereaving,  heart-benumbing, 
Sounds  the  Furies'  fearful  strain, 
To  the  hearer's  marrow  piercing, 
And  the  soft  lute  sounds  in  vain. 

"Well  he,  whose  childlike  soul  within 
There  dwells  no  guilt,  there  lurks  no  sin. 
To  him  the  Furies  come  not  near. 
His  path  of  life  is  free  from  fear. 
But  woe  to  him  whose  secret  hand 
Has  done  a  deed  that  fears  the  light, 
We  tread  upon  his  fleeing  heels 
The  fearful  daughters  of  the  night! 

He  may  not  flee,  he  may  not  'scape. 
With  shadowing  wings  our  course  we  shape. 
And  round  his  feet  a  net  we  throw, 
From  which  no  sinner  free  may  go. 
Thus  urge  we  him,  without  remit. 
No  plaint  of  man  may  bound  our  will, 
Down  to  the  regions  of  the  dead. 
And  even  there  we  urge  him  still ! " 


46 


Thus  singing  do  they  beat  the  ground. 
And  death-like  stilhie^s  reigns  around, 
As  if  embodied  Deity 
In  fearful  wrath  revealed,  were  nigh. 
And  solemnly  they  walk  around, 
With  fearful  look,  with  awful  mien. 
And  with  a  slow  and  measured  pace 
They  vanish  in  the  distant  scene. 

And  between  truth  and  semblance  swaying, 
Trembles  each  breast  r>eep  homage  paying 
To  the  dread  judger  of  the  hearts 
That  dwelleth  in  the  inward  parts: 
That  all  uufathomed,  unexplored. 
Winds  the  dark  clue  of  Fate  alway, 
That  speaketh  to  the  bosom's  depths, 
But  flies  the  garish  light  of  day. 

Then  from  the  theatre's  far  end 
They  heard  a  sudden  voice  descend  — 
'  Behold,  behold  Timotljeus, 
Behold  the  cranes  of  Ibinus." 
And  dark  the  sky  becomes  and  darker, 
And  o'er  the  open  canopy, 
In  hurried  and  ill-omened  flight 
A  banded  troop  of  cranes  they  see. 

■•'  Of  Ibicus  '"  —  the  dear-loved  name, 
Shakes  with  new  sorrow  every  frame. 
And  as  in  ocean  wave  on  wave, 
From  mouth  to  mouth  the  word  they  gave. 


47 


"  Of  Ibicus,  whom  we  lament 
And  weep  in  vain  his  hapless  end? 
What  may  it  mean?  Why  spake  that  voice? 
What  may  the  flight  of  cranes  portend?  " 

And  louder  still  the  murmur  flows, 

And  like  the  lightning's  flash  it  goes 

Through  every  heart.    "  Give  heed,  give  heed ! 

This  is  the  Furies'  proper  deed  ; 

The  pious  poet  is  revenged. 

The  murderer's  mystery  is  broken  ; 

Seize  him  the  man  that  spake  that  word. 

And  him  to  w^hom  that  word  was  spoken  !  " 

But  him  who  spake  that  word  —  in  vain 

sought  to  call  it  back  again  ; 
His  terror-blenched  lips  made  known 
The  crime  that  they  would  fain  disown. 
They  drag  the  twain  before  the  judge  ; 
The  seat  becomes  a  judgment-seat, 
The  murderers  confess  their  guilt. 
And  wreak,  the  Furies'  vengeance  meet. 

Ibid. 


48 


TO  THE  MUSE. 

I  DO  not  know  what  I  should  be. 
Were  I  deprived,  my  Muse,  of  thee  — 
But,  sick  at  heart,  am  I  to  see 
What  thousands  are,  who  feel  not  thee. 

Ibid. 


49 


MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

Freedom  returns  —  oh!  let  me  enjoy  it, 

Let  me  be  happy,  be  happy  with  me — • 
Freedom  invites  me  —  oh!  let  me  employ  it, 

Skimming,  with  winged  step,  light  o'er  the  lea  — 
Have  I  escai)ed  from  this  mansion  of  mourning? 

Holds  me  no  more  this  sad  dungeon  of  care  ? 
Let  me  with  thirsty  impatience  burning, 

Drink  in  the  free,  the  celestial  air.  — 
Thanks  to  these  friendly  trees  which  hide  from  me 

My  prison's  bounds,  and  flatter  my  illusion  ; 
Happy  I  '11  dream  myself,  and  gladly  free  ; 

Why  wake  me  from  my  dream's  so  sweet  con- 
fusion 

From  where  yon  misty  mountains  rise  on  high, 

I  can  my  Empire's  boundaries  explore. 
And  those  li^ht  clouds  which  steering  southwards 

fly, 

Seek  the  mild  clime  of  France's  genial  shore  ; 
Hastening  clouds !  ye  meteors  that  fly. 
Could  I  but  with  you  speed  through  the  sky? 
Tenderly  greet  me  the  land  of  my  youth  ; 
I  am  in  sorrow,  I  am  in  restraint, 
I  have  none  else  to  bear  my  complaint  j 
Free  in  ether  yom-  path  is  seen, 
Ye  are  not  subject  to  this  tyrant  queen. 

E 


50 


Hear'st  thou  the  bugler  blithely  resounding, 
Hear'st  thou  its  blast  through  wood  and  plain.' 

Could  I  once  more  on  my  nimble  steed  bounding, 
Join  the  jocund,  the  frolicsome  train! 

Again,  oh!  sadly  pleasing  remembrance  ; 

Such  were  the  sounds  which  so  merry  and  clear. 

Ol't,  when  with  music  the  hounds  and  the  horn 

Cheertully  wakened  the  slumbering  morn. 

On  the  hills  of  the  Highlands  delighted  my  ear. 

Ibid. 


51 


THE  FIGHT  WITH  THE  DRAGON. 

Why  stirs  the  town,  why  rolls  along 
From  street  to  street  the  billowy  throng? 
Is  Rhodes  on  flame,  that  they  should  come 
Like  crowds  waked  by  the  midnight  drum  ? 
A  gallant  knight,  and  mounted  high, 
Amid  the  shouting  throngs  I  spy  ; 
Behind,  a  shape  of  aspect  dread. 
Upon  a  slow  dragged  wain  is  led  ; 
A  dragon,  by  its  scaly  hide 
I  know  it,  and  its  jaws  so  wide  j 
And  all  behold,  with  wondering  sight. 
The  dragon  now,  and  now  the  knight. 

A  thousand  voices  shout  with  glee, 
"  This  is  the  dragon,  come  and  see ! 
That  swallowed  all  with  sateless  greed, 
This  is  the  hero  that  hath  us  freed ! 
Full  many  a  knight  before  him  went. 
To  slay  the  bloody  dragon  bent ; 
But  never  a  knight  came  from  the  fight, 
Praise  to  this  bold,  this  noble  knight ! " 
And  to  the  cloister  hied  they  on. 
Where  sate  the  brave  Knights  of  St.  John, 
Where  sate  the  Knights  of  Jerusalem, 
In  solemn  council  met,  they  came. 

Before  the  throne  the  young  knight  stands, 
And  bares  his  head,  and  folds  his  hands  ; 


5-2 


The  pressing  crowds  impatient  tread 
Upou  the  circling  balustrade: 
"  My  knightly  duty  I  have  done." 
Exclaimed  the  youth,  ''the  light  is  won  ; 
The  dragon  that  laid  waste  the  land, 
I  slew  it  with  my  sword  in  hand  ; 
The  wanderer  now  may  wend  his  way, 
The  shepherd  on  his  reed  may  play. 
The  pilgrim  now,  from  terror  free, 
At  holy  shrine  may  bend  the  knee!  " 

But  sternly  looks  the  chief,  and  says, 
"  Well  hast  thou  earned  a  hero's  praise, 
Ft)r  valor  most  adorns  the  knight, 
And  thou  bast  fought  a  valiant  fight. 
But  speak!  what  is  the  first  of  laws 
For  him  who  fights  in  Jesus'  cause, 
The  sacred  sign  upou  his  mail:  " 
—  And  all  that  hear  the  words  turn  pale. 
But  he  with  noble  firmness  speaks, 
A  manly  blush  upon  his  cheeks. 
Obedience  is  the  law  divine 
That  makes  him  worthy  of  the  sign." 

"  This  law  divine,"  the  master  said, 
Thy  foot  hath  stamped  with  reckless  tread  : 
A  fight  forbidden  thou  hast  fought. 
And  held  thy  knightly  faith  at  naught." 

^' Judge,   master,  when   thou   know'st  the 
whole," 

Spake  he,  with  calm  untroubled  soul. 


53 


"  The  Order's  law,  the  master's  will, 
Deemed  I  most  truly  to  fulfil  ; 
Not  rash  and  thoughtless  did  I  go 
To  lay  the  fearful  monster  low, 
But  pondered  well  was  my  intent. 
And  more  of  wiles  than  blows  were  spent. 

"  Five  noble  knights  had  fallen  low, 
The  victims  of  the  dragon  foe  ; 
Then  came  thy  mandate  to  abstain 
From  hopeless  fight,  from  contest  vain. 
Ill  might  I  brook  the  stern  command, 
That  fettered  my  impatient  brand,  — 
By  busy  day,  by  silent  night, 
I  wrestled  in  the  bloody  fight  ; 
And  when  with  morning's  early  dawn 
New  cries  of  terror  crossed  the  lawn, 
My  boiling  blood  I  might  not  tame. 
And  vowed  to  wipe  away  our  shame. 

"  And  to  myself  I  spake  —  what  deed 
Is  youth's  reward,  is  manhood's  meedr 
What  did  the  sons  of  mighty  name, 
Whose  praise  heroic  songs  proclaim, 
Who  to  the  rank  of  deity 
Were  raised  by  blind  idolatry? 
Did  they  not  purify  the  earth 
From  fearful  things  of  monstrous  birth? 
Did  they  not  face  the  lion's  roar. 
And  wrestle  with  the  Minotaur, 
Bidding  their  blood  in  streams  to  flow. 
That  free  the  prisoned  souls  might  go? 


Deserves  alone  the  Moorish  head 
To  tall  beneath  a  Christian  blade? 
Fight  we  the  idol  god^  alone? 
No  !  every  sigh  and  every  groan 
Sent  up  from  every  anguished  breast. 
Calls  on  the  knight,  with  loud  behest. 
Courage  with  wisdom  to  unite,. 
And  mingle  cunning  with  his  might  — 
Thus  spake  I  oft,  and  wandering  then. 
Tracked  out  the  dragon's  bloody  den  ; 
Of  many  plans  God  showed  me  one. 
I  cried  rejoicing,  —  It  is  done  I ' 

And  came  to  thee,  and  asked  thy  leave 
To  visit  home,  a  short  reprieve  ; 
Thou,  sire,  didsi  not  ret'use  my  prayer. 
And  fleet  o'er  the  wide  seas  I  fare. 
Scarce  had  I  reached  my  native  strand, 
When,  by  an  artist's  cunning  band, 
A  dragon  shaf>e  I  made,  and  knew, 
Well  marked,  each  ugly  feature  true. 
On  stunted  feet  its  monstrous  weight 
Climbs  like  a  tower,  in  awkward  height. 
And  round  and  round,  a  scaly  mail 
Sco&  every  effort  to  assail. 

Its  huge  neck  stretches  many  an  ell.. 
And,  like  the  yawning  gates  of  hell. 
Sucking  their  prey  from  every  side, 
Its  jaws  are  opened  long  and  wide  ; 
Fierce  in  its  swanhy  mouth  it  shows 
Sharp  teeth  in  triple  bristling  rows  j 


55 


Its  tongue  is  like  a  pointed  blade, 
Its  little  eyes  shoot  lightnings  dread, 
Its  grated  spine,  both  broad  and  long, 
Ends  in  a  tail  of  serpent  strong, 
Whose  bloody  knots  have  often  bound 
Both  man  and  beast  in  scapeless  round. 

^'  Thus  shape  I  each  minutest  trait, 
And  clothe  it  in  a  dingy  gray. 
Seemed  dragon  half,  and  half  a  snake, 
Born  of  the  black  infernal  lake  ; 
And  when  the  shape  was  finished  quite. 
Two  dogs  I  chose  me  strong  and  wight, 
Well  trained,  I  wis,  by  huntsmen  good, 
To  chase  the  wild  bull  through  the  wood  ; 
I  drive  them  on,  I  chafe  their  ire. 
They  seize  the  scaly  monster  dire 
With  angry  tooth,  while  standing  nigh, 
I  urge  them  onwards  with  my  cry. 

"  And  when  the  belly's  softer  parts 
Are  open  laid  to  hostile  arts, 
I  made  them  seize  the  monster  there. 
And  with  their  pointed  fangs  it  tear. 
Myself  upon  my  Arab  steed. 
Of  mettle  proved,  of  noble  breed. 
Armed  as  for  fiercest  combat,  storm 
Against  the  hideous  dragon-form. 
With  loud  halloo  for  battle  cry 
I  spur  him  on  to  victory  ; 
And  throw  my  darts  with  aim  so  true. 
As  might  I  pierce  the  dragon  through. 


56 


"  And  though  my  proud  steed  rears  him  high. 
And  champs  his  bit  impatiently, 
And  though  my  trim  curs  howl. and  moan, 
Without  remit  I  urge  them  on. 
Thus  are  they  trained  from  day  to  day. 
Till  thrice  the  moon  renews  her  ray: 
And  when  they  are  in  finished  train, 
On  winged  ship  I  cross  the  main. 
Three  days  have  passed,  have  passed  no 
more, 

Since  first  I  landed  on  this  shore  ; 
My  weary  limbs  I  might  not  rest 
Till  I  fulfilled  my  high  behest. 

"  For  it  did  pierce  m.e  through  and  through 
To  hear  the  boors  their  cries  renew, 
And  tell  of  shepherds  gored  and  torn, 
That  in  the  foggy  fens  were  lorn  ; 
My  heart  commands,  and  I  obey, 
I  gird  me  to  the  work  straightway, 
I  mount  my  trusty  Arab  steed. 
My  trusty  squires  attend  my  need, 
My  faithful  curs  my  voice  obey. 
And  wend  with  me  on  secret  way, 
Where  none  might  know  our  travel's  bent, 
Or  interrupt  our  bold  intent. 

"  Thou  know'st  the  chapel,  sire:  it  stands 
Upon  a  rock  whose  height  commands 
The  smiling  island  far  and  near ; 
No  vulgar  hand  such  work  might  rear. 


57 


And  though  without  it  seem  but  small, 
Within  its  treasure  passeth  all- 
The  mother  and  the  babe  divine, 
And  the  three  kings  that  saw  the  sign  ; 
Three  times  thirty  steps  ascends 
The  pilgrim,  ere  his  labor  ends. 
But  soon  forgets  the  giddy  road 
When  near  to  Christ,  and  near  to  God. 

''Deep  in  the  rock  there  is  a  grot, 
Where  light  of  glad  day  cometh  not, 
A  noisome  and  empoisoned  den. 
Dank  with  thick  vapors  of  the  fen. 
Within  this  den  the  dragon  lay. 
His  victims  watching  night  and  day, 
A  hellish  watchman  at  the  gate 
Of  God's  own  house,  the  monster  sate  ; 
And  when  the  pilgrim  passed  before 
The  spot  oft  stained  with  human  gore. 
From  ambuscade  the  dragon  came. 
And  swallowed  up  his  weary  frame. 

"  Before  the  doubtful  fight  I  try. 
The  sacred  rock  I  mounted  high. 
And  knelt  before  the  babe,  to  cleanse 
My  soul  from  sin  by  penitence. 
There,  when  the  wondrous  image  shone. 
My  glittering  gear  I  girded  on, 
And  with  my  good  spear  in  the  right, 
Descend  well-omened  to  the  fight. 


58 


1  leave  behind  my  faithful  band 
Of  squires,  and  give  rny  last  command  ; 
And,  mounting  light  my  faithful  steed, 
Pray  God  to  help  me  in  my  need. 

"  Scarce  had  I  reached  the  open  spot 
That  lies  before  the  noisome  grot, 
When  bark  my  curs,  and  snorts  my  steed, 
And  rears  him  high,  and  checks  his  speed  ; 
For,  lo !  wound  up  in  fearful  clue. 
Exposed  the  monster  lies  to  view, 
And  basks  him  in  the  sultry  sun  ; 
My  ready  curs  against  him  run, 
But,  rising  quick,  he  gives  them  pause, 
And  wide  he  opes  his  ponderous  jaws, 
And  sends  his  breath  forth  like  a  blight, 
And  howls  like  jackall  in  the  night. 

But  quickly  I  reviv^e  their  rage. 
And  with  new  fury  they  engage, 
While  I  my  spear,  my  strongest,  throw 
With  might  against  the  scaly  foe  ; 
But  powerless  as  a  stone  it  falls 
Thrown  back  from  triple  granite  walls. 
And  ere  I  could  renew  my  throw 
My  steed  shies  from  the  hideous  foe  ; 
He  fears  that  eye  of  serpent  glare. 
He  fears  that  breath  that  chokes  the  air, 
And  startles  back  —  and  now  the  strife 
Well  nigh  had  ended  with  my  life. 


59 


"  Quick  from  my  steed  I  spring,  and  bear 
My  ready  brand  with  threatful  air  ; 
But  all  my  blows  fall  dintless  on 
That  harness  harder  than  the  stone, 
And  with  his  tail,  wide  lashing  round, 
It  brings  me  powerless  to  the  ground. 
Already  seemed  its  yawning  jaws 
Before  the  mighty  gulp  to  pause, 
AVhen  rush  my  curs,  a  faithful  pair, 
Upon  the  softer  parts  laid  bare. 
And  bite,  and  tear,  and  pinch  it  so, 
It  stands  and  howls  for  very  woe. 

"  And  while  it  howls  in  agony, 
With  sudden  spring  I  shake  me  free, 
Deep  to  the  hilt  my  sword  I  bury 
Within  the  monster's  mesentery. 
Where  scales  protect  not  from  his  foes. 
And  from  the  wound  the  black  blood  flows. 
He  sinks,  and  buries  in  his  fall 
Me  with  his  body's  weighty  ball. 
My  senses  leave  me.    In  a  swound 
I  lay  ;  and  when  I  looked  around, 
My  faithful  squires  beside  me  stood. 
And  lies  the  Dragon  in  his  blood." 

Scarce  had  the  noble  youth  made  pause. 
When  loud  arose  the  free  applause: 
Too  long  restrained  the  mingled  tide 
Of  rival  plaudits,  multiplied. 


60 


Came  from  the  echoing  roof  tenfold. 
As  swelling  wave  on  wave  is  rolled. 
His  brother  knights  with  one  acclaim 
Might  crown  him  with  a  wreath  of  fame, 
From  street  to  street  in  triumph  proud 
Might  bear  him  on  the  grateful  crowd. 
The  master  folds  his  brow  severe, 
And  bids  the  throngs  in  silence  hear. 

And  speaks:  "  Thy  valiant  hand  hath  sla 
The  foe  that  many  fought  in  vain  j 
The  grateful  people's  Deity, 
Thou  art  thine  order's  enemy  ; 
Thy  heart  hath  borne  a  serpent,  know, 
•Worse  than  the  bloody  dragon-foe. 
That  snake,  the  venom  of  th}-  breast, 
A  will  it  is  by  pride  possessed. 
Whose  stubborn  bent  may  not  incline 
To  order  and  to  discipline. 
That  man  from  man  asunder  tears,. 
And  with  itself  to  ruin  bears. 

"  Wild  courage  may  the  Moor  dis])lay, 
A  Christian's  boast  is  to  obey  ; 
For  where  the  Lord  of  earth  and  skies 
Walked  in  a  servant's  humble  guise. 
The  fathers  of  onr  order  there 
The  vow  of  holy  knighthood  sware. 
The  hardest  duty  to  fulfil. 
To  curb  our  own  rebellious  will! 


61 


Thee  hath  vainglory  led  astray, 
Go,  take  thee  from  my  sight  away ! 
Who  scorns  his  master's  yoke  divine. 
Not  vi'orthy  is  to  wear  his  sign." 

Breaks  out  the  crowd  with  angry  roar, 
His  brother-knights  for  grace  implore, 
And  shakes  the  pillared  dome  around  ; 
But  silent  looks  upon  the  ground 
The  youth,  and  doffs  his  knightly  gear, 
Kisses  the  master's  hand  severe, 
And  goes.    He  follows  with  his  eye, 
And  back  he  calls  him  lovingly, 
And  speaks.  —  "  Embrace  me,  noble  son 
The  harder  fight  thy  faith  hath  won ! 
This  cross  receive.    It  is  the  meed 
Of  humble  heart,  and  noble  deed." 

Ibid. 


62 


RITTER  TOGGENBURG. 

"  Knight,  the  love  I  owe  a  brother 

I  devote  to  thee, — 
Seek,  bold  Knight,  oh  seek  no  other! 

For  it  may  not  be. 
Let  me  see  thy  peace  returning 

And  thy  self-command, 
My  calm  soul  thy  restless  yearning 

Cannot  understand." 

And  the  Knight  he  heard  in  silence. 

Durst  no  longer  stay. 
From  her  arms  with  sudden  violence 

Tore  himself  away. 
Straight  his  followers  round  him  rallied, 

Formed  a  gallant  band  : 
With  the  cross  begirt,  they  sallied 

To  the  Holy  Land. 

There,  his  figure  wan  and  gory 

Led  the  battle's  van. 
And  with  many  a  deed  of  glory 

Scared  the  Mussulman. 
But  the  barb  still  rankled  in  him, 

Fame  brought  no  relief. 
Back  to  life  it  could  not  win  him, 

Could  not  soothe  his  grief. 


63 


Twelve  long  months  he  bore  the  burden 

He  could  bear  no  more, 
Then  renounced  the  victor's  guerdon 

And  the  Paynim  shore  ; 
Saw  a  vessel,  home  returning, 

Sail  from  Joppa's  strand, 
Flew^  to  still  his  spirit's  yearning 

In  his  native  land. 

To  the  loved  one's  hall  he  bounded: 

At  her  castle  gate, 
Sad,  alas!  the  tidings  sounded. 

He  had  come  too  late. 
"  She  you  seek,  from  earth  translated, 

With  the  convent's  vows. 
Yesterday  was  consecrated 

Heaven's  accepted  spouse." 

Then  the  Knight  renounced  for  ever 

Castle,  sword,  and  spear, 
Saw  his  faithful  vassals  never,  • 

Nor  his  steed  so  dear  ; 
Left  the  grey  ancestral  towers. 

Famed  for  knightly  deeds. 
Went  in  quest  of  humbler  bowers, 

Clothed  in  pilgrim's  weeds  ; 

Near  her  consecrated  dwelling 

Built  his  hermit-cell. 
Where  along  the  valley  swelling 

Pealed  the  convent  bell. 


64 


There  in  lowly  self-abasement, 

Humble  and  resigned, 
Oft  he  gazed  toward  the  casement 

Where  his  love  was  shrined. 

Till  her  figure  he  discovered. 

Till  her  image  mild 
Bending  o'er  the  valley  hovered, 

On  the  valley  smiled. 
Then  the  Knight  forgot  his  sorrow, 

And,  released  from  pain, 
Slept  ill  peace,  until  the  morrow 

Bade  him  weep  again. 

Years  he  spent  in  that  lone  bower. 

Steadfast  and  resigned, 
Watching  still  the  convent  tower 

Where  his  love  was  shrined. 
Thus  one  morning  found  him  lying 

Wrapt  in  Death's  embrace  ; 
Calm  the  eye  that  even  in  dying 

Gazed  on  that  dear  face. 

Ibid. 


65 


THE  PILGRIM. 

Life's  first  beams  were  bright  around  me 
When  I  left  my  father's  cot, 

Breaking  every  tie  that  bound  me 
To  that  dear  and  hallowed  spot. 

Childish  hopes  and  youthful  pleasures, 
Freely  I  renounced  them  all, 

Went  in  quest  of  nobler  treasures. 
Trusting  to  a  higher  call. 

For  to  me  a  voice  had  spoken. 

And  a  Spirit  seemed  to  say 
Wander  forth  !  — the  path  is  broken. 

Yonder,  eastward  lies  thy  way. 

Rest  not  till  a  golden  portal 

Thou  hast  reached  ;  —  there  enter  in, 
And  what  thou  hast  prized  as  mortal. 

There,  immortal  life  shall  win. 

Evening  came  and  morn  succeeded. 

On  I  sped  and  never  tired  ; 
Cold,  nor  heat,  nor  storm  I  heeded. 

Boundless  hope  my  soul  inspired, 

Giant  cliffs  rose  up  before  me. 
Horrid  wilds  around  me  lay. 

O'er  the  cliiFs  my  spirit  bore  me, 

Through  the  wilds  I  forced  my  way  ; 

F 


66 


Came  to  where  a  mighty  river 

Eastward  rolled  its  sullen  tide  ; 
Forth  I  launched  with  bold  endeavour, — 
"  Pilgrim  stream,  be  thou  my  guide ! " 

It  hath  brought  me  to  the  ocean. 
Now,  upon  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

Where 's  the  land  of  my  devotion  ? 
What  I  seek  seems  still  to  flee. 

Woe  is  me !  no  path  leads  thither, 
Earth's  horizons  still  retreat ; 

Yonder  never  will  come  hither. 
Sea  and  sky  will  never  meet ! 

Ibid. 


67 


THE  NEVVYEAR'S-NIGHT  OF  AN  UN- 
HAPPY MAN. 

An  old  man  stood  in  the  newyear's  night  at 
his  window  and  looked  with  a  glance  of  fearful 
despair  up  to  the  immovable,  ever-blooming 
heaven,  and  down  upon  the  still,  pure,  white 
earth,  whereupo'n  now  no  one  was  so  joyless 
and  sleepless  as  he.  For  his  grave  stood  near 
him;  it  was  only  covered  with  the  snow  of  old 
age,  and  not  with  the  green  foliage  of  youth, 
and  he  brought  from  a  whole  rich  life  nothing 
but  errors,  sins,  and  diseases,  a  wasted  body,  a 
desolate  soul,  a  breast  full  of  poison,  and  an 
old  age  full  of  repentance. 

To-day  the  beautiful  days  of  his  youth  re- 
appeared like  spectres,  and  reconveyed  him  to 
that  lovely  morning,  when  his  father  first  placed 
him  on  the  cross-way  of  life  which  leads  on  the 
right  on  the  sunny  path  of  virtue  into  a  large, 
quiet  land  full  of  light  and  harvests,  and  which 
on  the  left  plunges  into  the  mole-walks  of  vice, 
into  a  black  cave  full  of  distilling  poison,  full 
of  hissing  snakes,  and  of  dark,  sultry  vapors. 

Alas  the  snakes  were  hanging  on  his  breast 
and  the  drops  of  poison  on  his  tongue,  and  he 


68 


knew  not  where  he  was.  Distracted  and  with 
unspeakable  grief  he  thus  appealed  to  heaven  : 
Give  me  back  my  youth,  O  father,  place  me 
again  upon  the  cross-way,  that  I  may  choose 
otherwise.  But  his  father  and  his  youth  were 
gone  long  ago.  He  saw  ignes  fatui  dancing 
upon  marshes  and  disappearing  upon  the  ceme- 
tery, and  he  said  :  these  are  my  foolish  days  !  — 
He  saw  a  star  flying  from  heaven,  glittering  in 
its  fall,  and  vanishing  upon  the  earth  :  That  am 
I,  said  his  bleeding  heart,  and  the  snake-teeth 
of  repentance  probed  deeper  and  deeper  in  his 
wounds.  His  flaming  imagination  showed  him 
sleep-walkers  fleeing  upon  the  roofs,  and  the 
wind-mill  lifted  threatening  her  arms  for  de- 
struction, and  a  scull,  having  been  left  behind 
in  the  charnel-house,  gradually  assumed  his 
features. 

In  the  midst  of  this  struggle  the  music  of  the 
newyear  flowed  down  from  the  steeple  like  far- 
off  church  melodies.  His  emotions  began  to 
soften.  He  looked  about  around  the  horizon, 
and  over  the  far  extending  earth,  and  he 
thought  of  the  friends  of  his  youth,  who  now 
happier  and  better  than  he,  v.ere  teachers  of 
the  earth,  fathers  of  happy  children  and  blessed 
men,  and  he  said  :  O  I  might  also  slumber  like 


69 


you  with  dry  eyes  in  this  first  night,  if  I  had 
been  willing :  alas  I  might  be  happy,  my  dear 
parents,  if  I  had  listened  to  your  counsel ! 

In  the  feverish  remembrance  of  the  time  of 
his  youth  it  appeared  to  him  as  if  the  scull  in 
the  charnel-house,  which  bore  his  features, 
raised  itself ;  at  length  it  became  a  living  youth 
by  that  superstition,  which  in  the  newyear's 
night  sees  spirits  of  futurity.  — 

He  could  see  it  no  more ;  he  covered  his 
eyes ;  a  burning  flood  of  tears  rushed  from  his 
eyes,  and  vanished  in  the  snow ;  —  he  sighed  in 
accents  scarcely  audible :  "  Return,  youth, 
return  !  "  —  And  it  did  return  ;  for  thus  horri- 
bly he  only  had  dreamt.  He  was  yet  a  youth; 
his  errors  only  had  been  no  dream.  But  he 
thanked  God  that  he,  yet  young,  was  able  to 
turn  from  the  dirty  walks  of  vice  and  to  enter 
upon  the  sunny  path,  which  leads  into  the  land 
of  harvests.  Return  with  him,  young  reader,  if 
thou  art  standing  on  his  way  of  error.  This 
terrifying  dream  would  become  in  future  thy 
judge.  But  if  thou  shouldst  call  once  misera- 
bly :  Return,  beautiful  youth  ;  —  it  would  not 
return  !  — 

Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter. 


70 


THE  MOSS-ROSE. 

The  angel  who  watches  over  the  flowers, 
and  in  the  silent  night  sheds  upon  them  the 
dew,  once  fell  asleep  in  the  season  of  spring, 
early  in  the  morning,  in  the  shade  of  a  rose- 
bush. When  he  awoke,  kindly  smiling  he 
thus  addressed  the  rose-bush.  Loveliest  of  my 
children,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  exquisite  fra- 
grance, and  for  thy  ample  shade.  Canst  thou 
not  ask  of  me  some  new  gift?  How  gladly 
would  I  grant  it  thee  !  Adorn  me,  then,  with 
some  new  charm,  replied  the  spirit  of  the  rose- 
bush ;  and  the  genius  of  flowers  spread  over 
her  a  robe  of  simple  moss !  Behold  the  moss- 
rose,  how  modestly  adorned,  and  yet  the  most 
beautiful  of  her  species. 

Krummacher. 


71 


ASAPH. 

Asaph,  an  admirable  singer  and  harper,  sat, 
at  the  midnight  hour,  in  an  upper  room  of  his 
dwelling,  and  his  countenance  glowed  with 
delight.  For  he  thought  of  a  hymn  of  praise 
in  honor  of  the  Lord,  who  created  heaven  and 
earth,  and  all  that  is  therein.  Thus  Asaph  sat 
meditating  and  his  harp  resting  before  him. 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  to  ascend  to  the 
broad,  flat  roof,  and  behold  from  thence  the 
splendor  of  the  starry  heavens.  My  hymn, 
thought  he,  will  then  sound  yet  more  delight- 
fully. 

He  carried  his  harp  upon  his  house-top,  and 
gazing  up  into  the  heavens,  he  there  beheld 
Orion,  with  all  the  host  of  stars,  which  were 
silently  moving  over  his  head  in  eternal  splen- 
dor. The  holy  city,  with  the  surrounding 
valleys  and  mountains,  lay  beneath,  glistening 
in  the  light  of  the  moon,  while  all  the  inhabi- 
tants slept  in  the  silence  of  midnight.  The 
breath  of  midnight  swept  over  his  harp,  and  the 
chords  trembled. 

But  Asaph  could  sing  no  more ;  he  leaned 
his  head  upon  his  harp  in  silence  and  wept. 


72 


When  the  day  appeared,  and  the  people 
ascended  the  holy  mountain,  and  the  noise  was 
heard  of  the  multitude  crowding  together, 
Asaph  rose  and  went  down,  and  boldly  struck 
his  harp,  and  his  spirit  mounted  on  the  wings 
of  song  above  the  multitude  around  him. 

Ibid 


73 


THE  INVITATION. 

A  LONELY  cot  is  all  I  own : 
It  stands  on  yonder  verdant  down  ; 
And  near  the  brook  —  the  brook  is  small. 
Yet  clear  its  bubbling  fountains  fall. 

A  spreading  beech  uprears  its  head. 
And  half  conceals  the  humble  shed: 
From  chilling  winds  a  safe  retreat ; 
A  refuge  from  the  noon-tide  heat: 

And  on  its  boughs  the  nightingale 
So  sweetly  tells  her  plaintive  tale  ; 
That  oft  the  passing  rustics  stray, 
With  loitering  steps  to  catch  the  lay. 

Sweet  blue-eyed  maid,  with  locks  so  fair. 
My  heart's  dear  pride  —  my  fondest  care  ! 
I  hie  me  home  —  the  storm  doth  lower: 
Come  share,  sweet  Maid,  my  sheltering  tower ! 

Gleim. 


74 


SONG. 

Tell  me  where 's  the  violet  fled, 
Late  so  gayly  blowing  ; 

Springing  'neath  fair  Flora's  tread, 
Choicest  sweets  bestowing. 

Swain,  the  vernal  scene  is  o'er, 

And  the  violet  blooms  no  more  i 

Say,  where  hides  the  blushing  rose, 
Pride  of  fragrant  morning  ; 

Garland  meet  for  Beauty's  brows  ; 
Hill  and  dale  adorning. 

Gentle  Maid,  the  Summer's  fled, 

And  the  hapless  rose  is  dead ! 

Bear  me  then  to  yonder  rill, 

Late  so  freely  flowing, 
Watering  many  a  daffodil 

On  its  margin  glowing: 
Sun  and  wind  exhaust  its  store  ; 
Yonder  rivulet  glides  no  more  ! 

Lead  me  to  the  bowery  shade, 
Late  with  roses  flaunting  ; 

Loved  resort  of  youth  and  maid, 
Amorous  ditties  chaunting: 

Hail  and  storm  with  fury  shower  ; 

Leafless  mourns  the  rifled  bower! 


75 

Say,  where  bides  the  village  maid, 

Late  yon  cot  adorning  ; 
Oft  I 've  met  her  in  the  glade. 

Fair  and  fresh  as  morning: 
Swain,  how  short  is  beauty's  bloom! 
Seek  her  in  her  grassy  tomb. 

Whither  roves  the  tuneful  swain, 

Who,  of  rural  pleasures, 
Rose  and  violet,  rill  and  plain, 

Sung  in  deftest  measures? 
Maiden,  swift  Life's  vision  flies, 
Death  has  closed  the  Poet's  eyes ! 

Jacob!. 


76 


WATER-PIECE. 

Delighted,  my  fancy  still  wanders. 
Where  flows  the  clear  stream  in  meanders  — 

Still  paints  the  gay  bark  on  its  tide. 
Dear  bark,  where  with  bUss  all  elated, 
Near  Lucy,  sweet  maid,  so  oft  seated, 

I  have  loved  down  the  current  to  glide. 

We  sailed  on  its  soft-heaving  billows, 
And  'neath  the  cool  shade  of  its  willows, 

Marked  how  the  fish  sported  and  played  ; 
We  marked  the  green  margin  so  blooming, 
As  Spring  all  its  charms  was  resuming. 

And  saw  the  lambs  skip  o'er  the  mead. 

Sweet  days!  how  I  love  to  review  them! 
How  fondly  I  long  to  renew  tliem ! 

Dear  maid,  were  they  pleasing  to  thee? 
If  so,  let  us  ship  us  together, 
And  steer  through  Life's  fair  and  foul  weather — 

And  Cupid  our  pilot  shall  be. 

OVERBECK. 


11 


ELLENORE. 
I. 

At  break  of  clay  from  frightful  dreams 

Upstarted  Ellenore: 
My  William,  art  thou  slayn,  she  sayde, 

Or  dost  thou  love  no  more? 

II. 

He  went  abroade  with  Richard's  host 

The  paynim  foes  to  quell ; 
But  he  no  word  to  her  had  writt, 

An  he  were  sick  or  well. 

III. 

With  blore  of  trump  and  thump  of  drum 

His  fellow-soldyers  come, 
Their  helms  bedeckt  with  oaken  boughs. 

They  seeke  their  longed-for  home. 

IV. 

And  evry  road  and  evry  lane 

Was  full  of  old  and  young 
To  gaze  at  the  rejoycing  band, 

To  haile  with  gladsom  toung. 

V. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  their  wives  and  children  sayde, 
"  Welcome      the  brides  did  saye  ; 


78 


But  greet  or  kiss  gave  Ellenore 
To  none  upon  that  da3'e. 

VI. 

And  when  the  soklj  ers  all  were  bye, 

She  tore  her  raven  hair, 
And  cast  herself  upon  the  growne, 

In  furious  despair. 

VII. 

Her  mother  ran  and  lyfte  her  up, 
And  clasped  in  her  arm, 
"  My  child,  my  child,  what  dost  thou  ail? 
God  shield  thy  life  from  harm!  " 

VIII. 

'O  mother,  mother!  ^yilliam 's  gone 
What 's  all  besyde  to  me  c 
There  is  no  mercie,  sure,  above! 
All,  all  were  spared  but  he !  ' 

IX. 

"  Kneele  dowue,  thy  paternoster  saye, 
'T  will  calm  thy  troubled  spright: 
The  Lord  is  wise,  the  Lord  is  good  ; 
What  he  hath  done  is  right." 

X. 

'  0  mother,  mother !  saye  not  so  ; 
Most  cruel  is  my  fate : 
I  prayde,  and  prayde  ;  but  watte  avaylde? 
'T  is  now,  alas!  too  late.' 


79 


XI. 

Our  Heavenly  Father,  if  we  praye, 
Will  help  a  suflfring  child: 

Go  take  the  holy  sacrament  ; 
So  shal  thy  grief  grow  mild." 

XII. 

'  O  mother,  what  I  feele  within, 
No  sacrament  can  staye  ; 
No  sacrament  can  teche  the  dead 
To  bear  the  sight  of  daye.' 

XIII. 

May-be,  among  the  heathen  folk 
Thy  William  false  doth  prove. 

And  put  away  his  faith  and  troth, 
And  take  another  love. 

XIV. 

"  Then  wherefor  sorrowe  for  his  loss.'' 
Thy  moans  are  all  in  vain: 
But  when  his  soul  and  body  parte, 
His  falsehode  brings  him  pain." 

XV. 

/  O  mother,  mother!  gone  is  gone: 
My  hope  is  all  forlorn  ; 
The  grave  my  only  safeguard  is  — 
O,  had  I  ne'er  been  born  ! 


80 


XVJ. 

'  Go  out,  go  out,  my  lamp  of  life  ; 

In  grizely  darkness  die : 
There  is  no  mercie,  sure,  above  ! 
For  ever  let  me  lie.' 

XVII. 

Almighty  God!  O  do  not  judge 

My  poor  unhappy  child  ; 
She  knows  not  what  her  lips  pronounce, 

Her  anguish  makes  her  wild. 


XVIII. 

"  My  girl,  forget  thine  earthly  woe, 
And  think  on  God  and  bliss  ; 
For  so,  at  least,  shal  not  thy  soul 
Its  heavenly  bridegroom  miss." 


XIX. 

0  mother,  mother !  what  is  bliss. 
And  what  the  fiendis  cell.'' 

"With  him 't  is  heaven  any  where, 
Without  my  William,  hell. 

XX. 

Go  out,  go  out,  my  lamp  of  life. 

In  endless  darkness  die: 
Without  him  I  must  loathe  the  earth, 

Without  him  scorne  the  skie.' 


9 


81 


XXI. 

And  so  despair  did  rave  and  rage 

Athwarte  her  boiling  veins  ; 
Against  the  Providence  of  God 

She  hurlde  her  impious  strains. 

XXII. 

She  bet  her  breast,  and  wrung  her  hands, 

And  rollde  her  tearless  eye, 
From  rise  of  morn,  til  the  pale  stars 

Again  orespred  the  skye, 

r 

XXIII. 

When  harke  !  abroade  she  herde  the  tramp 

Of  nimble-hoofed  steed  ; 
She  herde  a  knight  with  clank  alighte, 

And  climbe  the  stair  in  speed. 

XXIV. 

And  soon  she  herde  a  tinkling  hand, 

That  twirled  at  the  pin  ; 
And  thro  her  door,  that  opend  not, 

There  words  were  breathed  in. 

XXV. 

•  What  ho  !  what  ho  !  thy  door  undo  ; 
Art  watching  or  asleepe.'' 
My  love,  dost  yet  remember  me. 
And  dost  thou  laugh  or  weepe.'* 


G 


82 


XXVI. 

'  Ah!  William  here  so  late  at  night! 
Oh!  I  have  vvachte  and  waked: 
Whense  art  thou  come?    For  thy  return 
My  heart  has  sorely  aked.' 

XXVII. 

"  At  midnight  only  we  may  ride  ; 
I  come  ore  land  and  see : 
I  mounted  late,  but  soone  I  go  ; 
Aryse,  and  come  with  mee." 

xxvin. 

'  O  William,  enter  first  my  bowre, 
And  give  me  one  embrace: 
The  blasts  athwarte  the  hawthorn  hiss  ; 
Awayte  a  little  space.' 

XXIX. 

"  Tho  blasts  athwarte  the  hawthorn  hiss, 
I  may  not  harbour  here  ; 
My  spurs  are  sett,  my  courser  pawes. 
My  hour  of  flight  is  nere. 

XXX. 

"  All  as  thou  lyest  upon  thy  couch, 
Aryge,  and  mount  behinde  5 
To-night  we'le  ride  a  thousand  miles, 
The  bridal  bed  to  fiiide." 


83 


XXXI. 

'  How,  ride  to-night  a  thousand  miles? 
Thy  love  thou  dost  bemock: 
Eleven  is  the  stroke  that  still 
Rings  on  within  the  clock.' 

XXXII. 

"  Looke  up  ;  the  moon  is  bright,  and  we 
Outstride  the  earthly  men  : 
I'le  take  thee  to  the  bridal  bed. 
And  night  shall  end  but  then." 

XXXIII. 

'  And  where  is  then  thy  house,  and  home, 

And  bridal  bed  so  meet.''  ' 
"  'T  is  narrow,  silent,  chilly,  low, 

Six  planks,  one  shrouding  sheet." 

XXXIV. 

'  And  is  there  any  room  for  me, 
Wherein  that  I  may  creepe.'' ' 

"  There 's  room  enough  for  thee  and  me, 
Wherein  that  we  may  sleepe. 

XXXV. 

"  All  as  thou  lyest  upon  thy  couch, 
Aryse,  no  longer  stop  ; 
The  wedding-guests  thy  coming  wayte, 
The  chamber-door  is  ope." 


84 


XXXVI. 

All  in  her  sarke,  as  there  she  lay, 

Upon  his  horse  she  sprung  ; 
And  with  her  lih'  hands  so  pale 

About  her  William  clung. 

XXXVIL 

And  hurry-skurry  off  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry  ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

XXXVIII. 

How  swift  the  flood,  the  mead,  the  wood, 

Aright,  aleft,  are  gone  ! 
The  bridges  thunder  as  they  pass, 

But  earthly  sowne  is  none. 


XXXIX. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede  ; 
Splash,  splash,  across  the  see: 
"  Hurrah !  the  dead  can  ride  apace  ; 
Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee? 


XL. 

The  moon  is  bright,  and  blue  the  night ; 

Dost  quake  the  blast  to  stem  ? 
Dost  shudder,  mayd,  to  seeke  the  dead.-^  " 
'  No,  no,  but  what  of  them ' 


85 


XLI. 

How  glumly  sownes  yon  dirgy  song ! 

Night-ravens  flappe  the  wing. 
What  knell  doth  slowly  tolle  ding  dong? 

The  psalms  of  death  who  sing? 

XLII. 

Forth  creeps  a  swarthy  funeral  train, 

A  corse  is  on  the  biere  ; 
Like  croke  of  todes  from  lonely  moores. 

The  chauntings  meete  the  eere. 


XLIII. 

"  Go,  beare  her  corse  when  midnight 's  past, 
With  song,  and  tear,  and  wail ; 
I  ^ve  gott  my  wife,  I  take  her  home, 
My  hour  of  wedlock  hail ! 

XLIV.  . 

"  Leade  forth,  O  dark,  the  chaunting  quire. 
To  swelle  our  spousal-song: 
Come,  preest,  and  reade  the  blessing  soone  ; 
For  our  dark  bed  we  long." 

XLV. 

The  bier  is  gon,  the  dirges  hush  ; 

His  bidding  all  obaye. 
And  headlong  rush  thro  briar  and  bush. 

Beside  his  speedy  waye. 


86 


XLVI. 


Halloo !  halloo  !  how  swift  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry  ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

XLVII. 

How  swift  the  hill,  how  swift  the  dale, 

Aright,  aleft,  are  gon  ! 
By  hedge  and  tree,  by  thorp  and  town, 

They  gallop,  gallop  on. 

XLVIII. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede  ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see: 
Hurrah !  the  dead  can  ride  apace  ; 

Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 

.  XLIX. 

^'  Look  up,  look  up,  an  airy  crew 
In  roundel  daunces  reele: 
The  moon  is  bright,  and  blue  the  night, 
Mayst  dimly  see  them  wheele. 


Come  to,  come  to,  ye  ghostly  crew. 

Come  to,  and  follow  me, 
And  daunce  for  us  the  wedding  daunce. 

When  we  in  bed  shal  be." 


87 


LI. 

And  brush,  brush,  brush,  the  ghostly  crew 
Came  wheeling  ore  their  heads, 

All  rustling  like  the  witherd  leaves 
That  wide  the  whirlwind  spreads. 

LII. 

Halloo  !  halloo  !  away  they  go. 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry  ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

'liii. 

And  all  that  in  the  moonshyne  lay. 

Behind  them  fled  afar  ; 
And  backward  scudded  overhead 

The  skie  and  every  star. 

LIV. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede 
Splash,  splash,  across  the  see: 

■  Hurrah!  the  dead  can  ride  apace  ; 
Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 

LV. 

•  I  weene  the  cock  prepares  to  crowe  ; 

The  sand  will  soon  be  run : 
I  snuffe  the  early  morning  air ; 
Powne,  downe !  our  work  is  done. 


88 


LVL 


The  dead,  the  dead  can  ride  apace 

Our  wed-bed  here  is  fit : 
Our  race  is  ridde,  our  journey  ore. 

Our  endless  union  knit." 


LVII. 


And  lo  !  an  yron-grated  gate 

Soon  biggens  to  their  view: 
He  crackde  his  whyppe  ;  the  locks,  the  bolts, 

Cling,  clang !  asunder  flew. 


LVIII. 

They  passe,  and 't  was  on  graves  they  trodde  ; 
"  'T  is  hither  we  are  bound:  " 
And  many  a  tombstone  ghastly  white 
Lay  in  the  moonshyne  round. 

LIX. 

And  when  he  from  his  steed  alytte, 

His  armure,  black  as  cinder, 
Did  moulder,  moulder  all  awaye, 

As  were  it  made  of  tinder. 

LX. 

His  head  became  a  naked  scull  ; 

Nor  hair  nor  eyne  had  he: 
His  body  grew  a  skeleton, 

Whilome  so  blithe  of  ble. 


89 


LXI. 

And  at  his  dry  and  boney  heel 

No  spur  was  left  to  bee  ; 
And  in  his  witherd  hand  you  might 

The  scythe  and  hour-glass  see. 

LXII. 

And  lo !  his  steed  did  thin  to  smoke. 

And  charnel-fires  outbreathe  ; 
And  paledj  and  bleachde,  then  vanishde  quite 

The  mayd  from  underueathe. 

LXIII. 

And  hollow  bowlings  hung  in  air, 

And  shrekes  from  vaults  arose: 
Then  knewe  the  mayd  she  might  no  more 

Her  living  eyes  unclose. 

LXIV. 

But  onward  to  the  judgment-seat, 
Thro  mist  and  moonlight  dreare, 

The  ghostly  crew  their  flight  persewe, 
And  hollowe  in  her  eare: 

LXV. 

Be  patient ;  tho  thyne  herte  should  breke, 

Arrayne  not  Heaven's  decree  ; 
Thou  nowe  art  of  thy  bodie  reft, 

Thy  soul  forgiven  bee !  " 

BijRGER. 


90 


THE  WILD  HUNTER. 
I. 

His  bugle  horn  the  margrave  sounds. 

Halloo-loo-loo !  to  horse,  to  horse. 
Neighs  the  brisk  steed,  and  forward  bounds  ; 

The  pack  uncoupled  join  his  course. 
With  bark  and  yelp,  they  brush  and  rush. 
Through  corn  and  thorn,  through  wood  and 
bush. 

II. 

The  Sunday  morning's  early  ray 
Had  clad  the  lofty  spire  in  gold  ; 

And  deep  and  shrill,  with  dong  and  ding, 
The  bells  their  matin  chiming  tolled  ; 

While  from  afar  resounds  the  lay 

Of  pious  people  come  to  pray. 

III. 

Yolohee  !  dash  athwart  the  train, 

With  trampling  haste  the  margrave  rides  ; 
When  lo!  two  horsemen  speed  amain. 

To  join  the  chase  from  different  sides  ; 
One  from  the  right  on  milk-white  steed, 
The  left  bestrode  a  swarthy  breed. 


91 


IV. 

And  who  were  then  the  strange'-pair 
I  guess  indeed,  but  may  not  say; 

The  right-hand  horseman,  young  and  fair, 
Looked  blooming  as  the  dawn  of  May  ; 

The  other's  eyes  with  fury  glow, 

And  tempests  loured  on  his  brow. 

V. 

Be  welcome,  sirs,  I 'm  starting  now  ; 

You  hit  the  nick  of  time  and  place  ; 
Not  earth  or  heaven  can  bestow 

A  princelier  pleasure  than  the  chase." 
Giving  his  side  a  hearty  slap  ; 
He  waved  aloof  his  hunter's  cap. 

VI. 

Ill  suits  the  bugle's  boisterous  noise 
With  sabbath-chime,  and  hymned  prayer, 

(Quoth  the  fair  youth  in  gentle  voice,) 
To-day  thy  purposed  sport  forbear: 

Let  thy  good  angel  warn  thee  now, 

Nor  to  thy  evil  genius  bow." 

VII. 

'  Hunt  on,  my  noble  fellow,  on," 
The  dingy  horseman  briskly  cries, 

'  Their  psalms  let  lazy  cowards  con, 
For  us  a  gayer  sun  shall  rise : 

What  best  beseems  a  prince  I  teach. 

Unheeded  let  yon  stripling  preach.'* 


92 


VIII. 

"  His  ghostly  counsels  I  shall  scorn," 

The  margrave  said,  and  spurred  his  steed, 
"  Who  fears  to  follow  hound  and  horn. 
Let  him  the  paternoster  heed. 
If  this.  Sir  Gentle,  vexes  you, 
Pray  join  at  church  the  saintly  crew." 

IX. 

With  sixteen  antlers  on  his  head 

A  milk-white  stag  before  them  strode. 

Soho !  hurrah!,  at  once  they  sped 

O'er  hill  and  wood,  o'er  field  and  flood. 

Aleft,  aright,  beside  the  knight, 

Rode  both  the  strangers  black  and  white. 

X. 

Louder  their  bugle-horns  they  wind, 
The  horses  swifter  spurn  the  ground  ; 

And  now  before,  and  now  behind. 

Crushed,  gasping,  howls  some  trampled 
hound. 

"  There  let  him  burst,  and  rot  to  hell, 
Our  princely  sport  this  must  not  quell. '^ 

XI. 

The  quarry  seeks  a  field  of  corn. 
And  hopes  to  find  a  shelter  there. 

See  the  poor  husbandman  forlorn 
With  clasped  hands  is  drawing  near. 
"  Have  pity,  noble  Sir,  forbear, 

My  little  only  harvest  spare." 


93 


XII. 

The  right-hand  stranger  calls  aside  ; 

The  other  cheers  him  to  the  prey. 
The  margrave  bawls  with  angry  chide: 
"Vile  scoundrel,  take  thyself  away." 
Then  cracks  the  lifted  whip  on  high, 
And  cuts  him  cross  the  ear  and  eye. 

XIII. 

So  said  and  done,  o'er  ditch  and  bank 
The  margrave  gallops  at  a  bound  ; 

And  with  him  pours  in  rear  and  flank 
The  train  of  man  and  horse  and  hound. 

Horse,  hound,  and  man,  the  corn-field  scour. 

Its  dust  and  chatf  the  winds  devour. 

XiV. 

Affrighted  at  the  growing  din 

The  timid  stag  resumes  his  flight, 

Runs  up  and  down,  and  out  and  in, 
Until  a  meadow  caught  his  sight, 

Where,  couched  among  the  fleecy  breed. 

He  siily  hopes  to  hide  his  head. 

XV. 

But  up  and  down,  and  out  and  in, 
The  hounds  his  tainted  track  pursue  ; 

Again  he  hears  the  growing  din, 
Again  the  hunters  cross  his  view. 

The  shepherd,  for  his  charge  afraid, 

Before  the  margrave,  kneeling,  said : 


94 


XVI. 

"  In  mercy,  noble  lord,  keep  back  ; 
This  is  the  common  of  tbe  poor  ; 
Unless  you  whistle  off  the  pack. 

We  shall  be  starved  for  want  of  store. 
These  sheep  our  little  cotters  owe, 
Here  grazes  many  a  widow's  cow." 

XVII. 

The  right-hand  stranger  calls  aside  ; 

The  other  cheers  him  to  proceed. 
Again  the  knight,  with  angry  chide. 

Repels  the  peasant's  humble  plead: 
'*Wert  thou  within  thy  cattle's  skin, 
I  would  not  call  a  bloodhound  in." 

XVIII. 

He  sounds  the  bugle  loo-loo-loo! 

The  dogs  come  yelping  at  the  sound  3 
With  fury  fierce  the  eager  crew 

Pounce  on  whatever  stood  around. 
The  shej)herd,  mangled,  blood-besmeared, 
Falls  ;  and,  beside  him  all  the  herd. 

XIX. 

Roused  by  the  murderous  whoop  so  near 
The  stag  once  more  his  covert  breaks  ; 

Panting,  in  foam,  with  gushing  tear, 
The  darkness  of  the  wood  he  seeks. 

And,  where  a  lonely  hermit  dwells, 

Takes  refuge  in  the  hallowed  cells. 


95 


XX. 

With  crack  of  whip,  and  blore  of  horn, 

Yolohee!  on!  hurrah!  soho! 
Rash  rush  the  throng  thro'  bush  and  thorn. 

And  thither  still  pursue  the  foe. 
Before  the  door,  in  gentle  guise. 
His  prayer  the  holy  hermit  tries. 

XXI. 

"  Break  off  thy  course,  my  voice  attend, 
Nor  God's  asylum  dare  profane  ; 

To  Heaven  not  in  vain  ascend 

The  groans  of  suffering  beast  or  man. 

For  the  last  time  be  warned,  and  bow, 
Else  punishment  shall  seize  thee  now."  . 

XXII. 

The  right-hand  stranger  pleads  again, 
With  anxious  mildness  to  forbear  ; 

The  left-hand  horseman  shouts  amain. 
And  cheers  the  margrave  still  to  dare. 

In  spite  of  the  good  angel's  call. 

He  lets  the  evil  one  enthral. 

XXiil. 

"  Perdition  here,  perdition  there," 
He  bellows,  "  I  as  nothing  reck  ; 
If  God's  own  footstool  were  its  lair, 

The  gates  of  Heaven  should  not  check. 
On,  comrades,  on  !  "  he  rode  before, 
And  burst  athwart  the  oriel  door. 


96 


XXIV. 

At  once  has  vanisht  all  the  rout, 

Hermit,  and  hut,  and  stag,  and  hound  ; 

Nor  whip,  nor  horn,  nor  bark,  nor  shout. 
Amid  the  dun  abyss  resound. 

Dim  chilly  mists  his  sight  appal  ; 

A  deadly  stillness  swallows  all. 

XXV. 

The  knight,  affrighted,  stares  around  ; 

He  bawls,  but  tries  in  vain  to  hear  ; 
He  blows  his  horn,  it  yields  no  sound, 

Cuts  with  his  lash  the  silent  air. 
And  spurs  his  steed  on  either  side. 
But  from  the  spot  he  cannot  ride. 

XXVI. 

Darker  and  darker  grow  the  skies. 
As  were  he  shrouded  in  a  grave: 

And  from  afar  below  arise 

Sounds  as  of  ocean's  restless  wave: 

While  from  on  high,  thro'  clouds  and  gloom, 

A  voice  of  thunder  speaks  his  doom: 

XXVII. 

"  Thou  fiend  beneath  a  human  shape, 
Scorner  of  beast,  of  man  —  of  God, 
Know  that  no  creature's  groans  escape 

His  ear,  or  his  avenging  rod. 
Fly,  and  that  princes  long  may  heed. 
Shall  Hell  and  Devil  dog  thy  speed." 


97 


XXVIII. 

Cold  shudders  thrill  through  flesh  and  bone  ; 

The  voice  his  soul  of  hope  bereaves  ; 
A  flash  of  tawny  lightning  shone 

Upon  the  forest's  rustling  leaves  ; 
And  chilly  winds  begin  to  roar. 
And  showery  tempests  drift  and  pour. 

XXIX, 

Louder  and  louder  howls  the  storm, 

And  from  the  ground,  bow  wow!  soho! 

A  thousand  hell-hounds,  ghaunt  of  form, 
Burst  open-mouthed  —  at  him  they  go  — 

And  there 's  a  ghastly  hunter  too. 

Horsed  on  the  steed  of  dingy  hue  — 

XXX. 

The  margrave  scuds  o'er  field  and  w^ood. 
And  shrieks  to  them  in  vain  to  spare  ; 

Hell  follows  still  through  fire  or  flood. 
By  night,  by  day,  in  earth,  in  air.  — 

This  is  the  chase  the  hunter  sees, 

With  midnight  horror,  thro'  the  trees. 


Ibid, 


98 


THE  MENAGERIE  OF  THE  GODS. 

Our  lap-dogs  and  monkeys,  our  squirrels  and  cats, 

Our  parrotSj  canaries,  and  larks, 
Have  furnished  amusement  to  many  old  maids. 

And  once  in  a  while  to  young  sparks. 

In  heaven,  where  time  passes  heavily  too. 
When  the  gods  have  no  subject  to  talk  on, 

Jove  calls  for  an  eagle,  he  keeps  in  a  mew. 
As  an  old  English  baron  his  falcon. 

He  lets  it  jump  on  to  his  sofa  and  chair, 
And  dip  its  crooked  beak  in  his  cup  j 

And  laugh  when  it  pinches  young  Ganymede's  ear, 
Or  eats  his  ambrosia  up. 

Queen  Juno,  who  fears  from  rough  play  a  mishap. 
Keeps  peacocks  with  rainbowy  tails  ; 

And  when  she 's  disposed  to  grudge  Saturn  his  nap, 
Their  screaming  or  screeching  ne'er  fails. 

Fair  Venus  most  willingly  coaxes  the  doves, 
That  coo,  woo,  and  wed,  on  her  wrist ; 

The  sparrow,  her  chambermaid  Aglae  loves. 
As  often  is  fondled  and  kist. 

Minerva,  too  proud  to  seem  pleased  with  a  trifle. 

Professes  to  keep  her  old  owl, 
The  crannies  and  chinks  of  Olympus  to  rifle ; 

For  rats,  mice,  and  vermin,  to  prowl. 


99 


Apollo,  above  stairs,  a  first-rate  young  blood, 
Has  a  stud  of  four  galloway  ponies  ; 

To  gallop  them  bounding  on  heaven's  high  road, 
A  principal  part  of  his  fun  is. 

'Tis  fabled  or  known,  he  instructed  a  swan. 
One  spring,  to  outwhistle  a  blackbird, 

Which  sings  the  Castalian  streamlet  upon. 
Like  any  Napolitan  lack-beard, 

Lyaeus  in  India  purchased  a  pair 

Of  tigers,  delightfully  pyballed. 
And  drives  them  about  at  the  speed  of  a  hare. 

With  self-satisfaction  unrivalled. 

At  Pluto's  black  gate,  in  a  kennel  at  rest, 

A  mastiff  so  grim  has  his  station, 
That  fearful  of  reaching  the  fields  of  the  blest. 

Some  ghosts  have  made  choice  of  damnation. 

But  among  all  the  animals,  little  and  great. 
That  are  fostered  and  pampered  above, 

The  ass,  old  Silenus  selects  for  his  mate, 
Is  that  which  most  fonilly  I  love. 

So  quiet,  so  steady,  so  guarded,  and  slow. 

He  bears  no  ill-will  in  his  mind  j 
And  nothing  indecent,  as  far  I  know, 

Escapes  him  before  or  behind. 

So  fully  content  with  himself  and  his  lord, 
He  is  used  with  good  humor  to  take 


100 


Whatever  the  whims  of  the  moment  afford, 
Be  it  drubbing,  or  raisins  and  cake. 

He  knows  o/  himself  every  step  of  the  way. 
Both  down  to  the  cellar  and  back  ; 

A  qualification,  I  venture  to  say. 
No  butler  of  mine  is  to  lack. 

So  largo  his  rump,  so  piano  his  pace, 
'T  is  needless  the  rider  to  gird  on ; 

Tho'  fuddled  the  god,  tho'  uneven  the  ways, 
He  never  gets  rid  of  his  burden. 

An  ass  such  as  this  all  my  wishes  would  fill ; 

O  grant  me,  Silenus,  one  prayer, 
When  thou  art  a  dying,  and  planning  thy  will, 

Good  father,  do  make  me  thy  heir ! 

Ibid. 


101 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BRAVE  MAN. 

Op  the  Brave  man,  high  sounds  the  praise, 

As  organ-tone  or  pealing  bell  ; 
Whom  gold  repays  not,  song  repays  ; 

High  couragej  song  repays  it  well ! 
Thank  God  I  sing !  so  I  can  raise 
A  proud  song  to  the  brave  man's  praise ! 

A  thaw-wind  came  from  the  southern  sea, 
And  moist  through  Italy  it  blew  ; 

As  'fore  the  wolf  the  scared  herds  flee, 
So  the  wild  clouds  before  it  flew: 

It  drenched  the  fields,  the  frost  unlocked, 

And  the  swoln  streams  with  freed  ice  blocked. 

The  mountain  snows  thawed  suddenly  ; 

Down  were  a  thousand  floods  impelled  ; 
The  meadow-vale  became  a  sea. 

And  the  great  river  swelled  and  swelled  ; 
High  rolled  its  waves  along  their  course 
Huge  blocks  of  ice  with  mighty  force. 

The  river  spanned  from  side  to  side 
A  bridge,  well  built  of  freestone  good, 

On  pillars  and  strong  arches  wide  ; 
And  on  it  a  small  toll-house  stood. 

Where  dwelt,  with  wife  and  child,  a  man  — 
"  Fly,  Tollman,  quickly,  while  you  can  !  " 


102 


The  threatening  ruin  o'er  them  hung, 

And  storm  and  waves  howled  round  about  ; 

Up  to  the  roof  the  ToUman  sprung, 

And  wildly  through  the  roof  looked  out. 
"  Merciful  Heaven  !  O  pity  thou ! 

Lost  are  we !  —  who  can  save  us  now?  " 

On  rolled  the  ice-flood's  furious  course. 
Now  here  now  there,  from  shore  to  shore. 

And  from  both  shores,  with  rushing  force. 
The  pillars  and  the  arches  tore. 

The  active  man,  with  wife  and  child, 

Than  stream  or  wind  cried  yet  more  wild. 

On  rolled  the  ice  flood,  shock  on  shock, 
'Gainst  both  ends  of  the  bridge  it  dashed, 

And  pillar  after  pillar  shook  ; 

One  moment  shook,  and  then  down  crashed. 

Against  the  middle  strikes  it  now  — 

Merciful  Heaven !  O  pity  thou  ! 

High  on  the  farther  shore  there  stands 
A  crowd  of  people,  great  and  small, 

And  each  one  cries  and  wrings  his  hands, 
And  yet  no  succour  brings  at  all  ; 

The  while  the  Tollman  wildly  made, 

Through  stream  and  wind  demand  for  aid. 

Song  of  the  Brave,  when  soundest  thou 
Like  organ-tone  and  pealing  bell 


103 


Go  to!  —  so  name  him,  name  him  now! 

Sweet  song,  his  name  when  wilt  thou  tell 
The  flood  strikes  'gainst  the  middle  now  — 
Oh !  brave  man,  brave  man,  where  art  thou 

Quick  galloped  then  unto  the  strand 

An  Earl  —  on  a  proud  horse  rode  he  ; 
What  held  that  good  Earl  in  his  hand? 

A  purse,  as  full  as  it  could  be: 
'  Two  hundred  pistoles,"  spoke  he  clear, 
'  For  him  who  saves  the  three^  are  here !  " 

And  now,  the  Earl,  is  he  the  brave? 

Say  on,  my  noble  song,  say  on:  — 
By  the  high  God,  the  Earl  was  brave! 

And  yet  I  know  a  braver  one.  — 
Brave  man  !  brave  man,  let 's  look  on  thee  - 
For  ruin  now  comes  frightfully! 

And  higher,  higher  rose  the  swell. 
And  louder,  louder  howled  the  storm, 

Yet  lower  still  men's  courage  fell.  — 
O  saviour,  saviour!  quickly  come  ; 

For  gone  is  every  pillar's  stay, 

And  next  the  mid-arch  must  give  way! 

'  Hollo  !  hollo  !  Up,  boldly  dare  !  " 

High  held  the  Earl  that  purse  of  worth, 
And  all  men  heard,  yet  all  forbear  — 
Out  of  the  thousands  none  step  forth  ; 


104 


Vainly,  through  stream  and  wind  yet  made 
The  Tollman  his  lorn  cry  for  aid ! 

See,  see  a  simple  countryman 

With  walking-staff  in  hand  comes  now  ; 
Coarse  was  the  garment  he  had  on. 

Yet  noble  was  his  form  and  brow : 
He  heard  the  Earl,  he  took  his  word, 
And  the  poor  Tollman's  cry  he  heard. 

Then  boldly,  in  God's  name,  he  sprang 

Into  the  nearest  fishing-boat ; 
Spite  whirlpool,  storm,  and  tempest-clang. 

Safely  the  light  bark  kept  afloat  — 
Yet  woe  !  the  boat  was  all  too  small 
From  death,  at  once,  to  rescue  all ! 

And  three  times,  spite  of  tempest's  rack, 
The  small  boat  flood  and  whirlpool  braved. 

And  three  times  happily  came  back  — 
And  thus  they  all  were  nobl}-  saved; 

Yet  scarce  the  last  safe  port  had  won, 

When,  crash!  the  latest  arch  came  down. 

Who  is  the  brave  man  —  who  is  he  ? 

Say  on,  my  noble  song,  say  on  — 
He  risked  his  life  most  generously  ; 

Yet  for  reward  was  it  not  done  ; 
Since,  had  the  Earl  his  pistoles  spared, 
Perchance,  his  life  he  had  not  dared. 


105 


"  Here,"  said  the  Earl,  "  my  valiant  friend, 
Is  thy  reward  —  't  is  thine  — come  forth !  " 
Say  now,  could  aught  that  act  amend?  — 
By  God !  his  was  a  heart  of  worth !  — 
Yet  beat  for  a  far  nobler  part, 
Beneath  his  cloak,  that  peasant's  heart. 

"  My  life,"  said  he,  "  may  not  be  sold  ; 

I  want  not,  though  my  wealth  be  small  j 
To  the  poor  Tollman  give  thy  gold. 

Who  in  the  flood  has  lost  his  all." 
Thus,  with  a  kind  voice,  did  he  say, — 
Then  turned  his  steps,  and  went  his  way. 

Of  the  brave  man  high  sounds  the  praise, 

As  organ-tone  or  pealing  bell 
Whom  gold  repays  not,  song  repays  ; 

High  courage,  song  repays  it  well! 
Thank  God,  I  sing!  so  I  can  raise 
Immortal  songs,  brave  men  to  praise ! 

Ibid. 


106 


THE  OAK  TREES. 

Evening  is  near  —  the  sun's  last  rays  have  darted 
O'er  the  red  sky  —  day's  busy  sounds  wax  low  ; 
Beneath  your  shade  I  seat  me,  anxious  hearted, 
Full  of  high  thoughts  and  manhood's  youthful 
glow  : 

Ye  true  old  witnesses  of  times  departed ! 
Still  are  ye  decked  in  young  life's  greenest  show  ; 
The  strong  old  days — the  past  world's  forms  of 
power  — - 

Still  in  your  pride  of  strength  before  us  tower! 

Much  that  was  noble,  Time  hath  been  defiling ! 
Much  that  was  fair,  an  early  death  hath  died ! 
Still  through  your  leaf-crown  glimmers,  faintly 
smiling, 

The  last  departing  glow  of  eventide ! 
Careless  ye  view  the  Fates  wide  ruins  piling  — 
In  vain  time  menaces  your  healthy  pride, 
And  voices  whisper,  through  your  branches  sigh- 
ing, 

"  All  that  is  great  must  triumph  over  dying!  " 

Thus  have  ye  triumphed!   O'er  what  droops  de- 
caying, 

Green,  fresh,  and  strong,  ye  rear  your  lusty  heads : 
No  weary  pilgrim,  through  the  forest  straying, 
But  rests  him  in  the  shade  your  branch-work 
spreads ; 


107 


E'en  when  your  leaves  are  dead,  each  light  wind 
playing 

On  the  glad  earth  their  precious  tribute  sheds  ; 
Thus,  o'er  your  roots,  your  fallen  children  sleep- 
ingj 

Hold  all  your  next  spring  glories  in  sure  keeping ! 

Fair  Images  of  true  old  German  feeling! 
As  it  showed  in  my  country's  better  days, 
When,  fearlessly  with  life's-blood  freedom  seal- 
ing, 

Her  sons  died,  glad  the  holy  war  to  raise ! 
Ah!  what  avails  our  common  grief  revealing! 
On  every  heart  a  hand  of  death  it  lays  ; 
My  German  land!  thou  noblest  under  heaven! 
Thine  O^k-trees  stand  —  Thou  down  to  earth 
art  driven ! 

KORNER. 


108 


ON  RAUCH'S  BUST  OF  QUEEN  LOUISA. 

Thou  sleepst  so  soft !  —  still  life's  fair  visions  over 
Each  tranquil  feature  breathe  once  more  in  seem- 
ing ; 

Thy  clear  mild  eyes,  just  closed  in  peaceful 
dreaming, 

With  scarcely  folded  wings  light  slumbers  cover: 
Thus  slumber  on,  till  thy  Land's  sons,  redeeming 
God's  favor,  gladly  give  life  to  recover: 
Their  freedom  —  when   upon  each   hiil  bright 
hover 

The  beacons  ;  and  their  rusted  swords  are  gleam- 
ing- 
Through  night  and  death  deep  the  Lord's  hosts 
are  driven. 

Thus,  through  hard  fight  alone  the  boon  is  given 
That  our  sons  freemen  live  in  earth  and  Heaven ! 
When  thy  land  calls  on  thee,  just  vengeance 
taking  ; 

Rise,  German  Wife  !  when  Freedom's  morn  is 
breaking  — 

For  the  good  cause  a  guardian  Angel  waking! 

Ibid. 


109 


PRAYER  DURING  FIGHT. 
Father,  I  call  on  Thee! 

Clouds   of  the  cannon  smoke   round  me  are 
wreathing, 

Thunders  in  hissing  flames  round  me  are  breath- 
ings 

Guider  of  battles,  I  call  on  Thee ! 
Father,  oh,  lead  Thou  me ! 

Father,  oh,  lead  Thou  me! 
Lead  me  in  victory,  lead  me  in  dying: 
Lord,  I  acknowledge  Thy  hand  on  me  lying ; 
Lord,  as  Thou  wiliest,  thus  lead  Thou  me. 
God,  I  acknowledge  Thee ! 

God,  I  acknowledge  Thee  ! 
In  falling  murmurs  the  Autumn  leaves  undef, 
As  in  the  storm  of  the  fight's  pealing  thunder, 
Fountain  of  Grace,  I  acknowledge  Thee  ! 
Father,  oh,  bless  Thou  me ! 

Father,  oh,  bless  Thou  me ! 
My  life  I  trust  to  Thee,  Father  in  Heaven, 
Thou  canst  retake  it,  Thou  hast  it  given  ; 
In  life  and  in  death,  oh,  bless  Thou  me! 
Father,  all  praise  to  thee! 


110 


Father,  all  praise  to  Thee ! 
We  for  no  riches  of  earth  are  contending, 
All  that  is  holy  our  swords  are  defending  ; 
Then  dying,  conquering,  still  praise  we  Thee! 
God,  oh,  dispose  of  me ! 

God,  oh,  dispose  of  me ! 

When  death's  loud  thunder  my  last  breath 
hailing! 

When  in  my  open  veins  life-blood  is  failing: 
Thou,  my  God,  then  oh  dispose  of  me ! 
Father,  I  call  on  Thee ! 

Ibid. 


Ill 


LEAVE-TAKING  FROM  LIFE. 

The  deep  wound  burns  —  my  parched  lips  coldly 
quiver  — 

I  feel,  by  my  faint  heart's  unsteady  beating, 
That  the  last  pulse  of  my  young  life  is  fleeting  — 
God,  to  thy  hands  my  spirit  I  deliver! 
How  sounds  of  coming  death  all  harshly  sever_ 
The  fair  dream-music,  where  bright  forms  were 
meeting ! 

Yet,  courage !  what  hath  given  my  heart  true 
greeting, 

I  shall  yet  keep  to  dwell  with  me  for  ever ! 
And  all  towards  which  my  worship  here  ascended, 
What  my  hot  youth,  with  fieriest  zeal  defended. 
Now  viewed  in  Freedom  —  once  with  love  all 
blended, 

I  see,  as  a  light  seraph,  o'er  me  flying  — 
And  whilst  each  fainting  sense  is  slowly  dying, 
It  wafts  sweet  airs  with  Heaven's  morn-fragrance 
sighing ! 

IciD. 


112 


SWORD  SONG. 

Sword  at  my  left  side  gleaming ! 
Why  is  thy  keen  glance  beaming. 
So  fondly  bent  on  mine? 
I  love  that  smile  of  thine ! 

Hurrah ! 

"  Borne  by  a  trooper  daring, 
My  looks  his  fire-glance  wearing, 
I  arm  a  freeman's  hand, 
This  well  delights  thy  brand, 

Hurrah ! " 

Aye,  good  sword!    Free  I  wear  thee  ; 
And  true  heart's  love  I  bear  thee. 
Betrothed  one  at  my  side. 
As  my  dear  chosen  bride. 

Hurrah ! 

"  To  thee  till  death  united. 
Thy  steePs  bright  life  is  plighted  ; 
Ah,  were  my  love  but  tried ! 
When  wilt  thou  wed  thy  bride  ? 

Hurrah ! " 

The  trumpet's  festal  warning 
Shall  hail  our  bridal  morning  ; 
When  loud  the  cannon  chide. 
Then  clasp  I  my  loved  bride, 

Hurrah ! 


113 


"  Ohj  joy,  when  thine  arms  hold  me! 
I  pine  until  they  fold  me. 
Come  to  me  !  bridegroom,  come  ! 
Thine  is  my  maiden  bloom. 

Hurrah!" 

Why,  in  thy  sheath  upspringing. 
Thou,  wild  dear  steely  art  ringing? 
Why  clanging  with  delight, 
So  eager  for  the  fight? 

Hurrah ! 

"  Well  may  thy  scabbard  rattle. 
Trooper,  I  pant  for  battle  ; 
Right  eager  for  the  fight, 
I  clang  with  wild  delight. 

Hurrah ! » 

Why  thus,  my  love,  forth  creeping? 
Stay,  in  thy  chamber  sleeping,  ^ 
Wait,  still,  i'  th'  narrow  room  ; 
Soon  for  my  bride  I  come. 

Hurrah ! 

Keep  me  not  longer  pining! 
Oh,  for  Love's  garden,  shining 
With  roses,  bleeding  red 
And  blooming  with. the  dead! 

Hurrah!" 

I 


114 


Come  from  thy  sheath  then,  treasure ! 
Thou  Trooper's  true  eye-pleasure  ; 
Come  forth,  my  good  sword,  come ! 
Enter  thy  father-home ! 

Hurrah 

"  Ha!  in  the  free  air  glancing, 
How  brave  this  bridal  dancing ! 
How  in  the  Sun's  glad  beams, 
Bride-like  thy  briglit  steel  gleams ! 

Hurrah 

Come  on,  ye  German  Horsemen! 
Come  on,  ye  valiant  Norsemen ! 
Swells  not  your  hearts'  warm  tide? 
Clasp  each  in  hand  his  bride ! 

Hurrah 

Once  at  your  left  side  sleeping, 
Scarce  her  veiled  glance  forth  peeping. 
Now,  wedded  with  your  right, 
God  plights  your  bride  i'  th'  light. 

Hurrah 

Then  press,  with  warm  caresses. 
Close  lips,  and  bridal  kisses. 
Your  steel  —  curst  be  his  head, 
Who  fails  the  bride  he  wed ! 

Hurrah 


115 


Now,  till  your  swords  flash,  flinging 
Clear  sparks  forth,  wave  them  singing: 
Day  dawns  for  bridal  pride  ; 
Hurrah,  thou  Iron-bride ! 

Hurrah ! 
Ibid. 


116 


LUTZOW'S  V/ILD  CHASE. 
What  gleams  through  yon  wood  in  the  sun-light 

gay? 

—  Hark!  —  nearer  and  nearer  sounding. 
They  gallop  towards  us  in  dark  array ! 
And  echoing  horns  loudly  ring  o'er  their  way. 
Till  fear  chills  our  hearts'  free  bounding: 
Should  ye  ask  who  that  band  of  black  riders  are, 
That  is  Lutzow's  Chase,  the  wild  Yagers  of  war! 

What  brushes  quick  yon  dark  forest  round  — 
From  hill  to  hill  lightly  glances? 
They  lie  by  night  in  their  ambush-ground  ; 
Their  huzza  peals  —  loud  their  carabines  ^ound! 
I'  th'  death-leap  each  French  fool  dances  ; 
Should  ye  ask  who  that  band  of  black  hunters  are. 
That  is  Lutzow's  Chase,  the  wild  Yagers  of  war! 

Whei'e  yon  .  grapes   ripely  cluster, — yon  loud 

waves  shine. 
The  w^retches  would  lurk  in  their  flying  ; 
Like  a  storm-cloud  rashes  that  long  dark  line, 
They  swim,  with  stout  arms,  o'er  the  rapid  Rhine, 
To  the  shore  where  their  foemen  are  lying  ; 
Should  ye  ask  who  that  band  of  black  swimmers 

are, 

That  is  Lutzow's  Chase,  the  wild  Yagers  of  war! 


117 


Why  peals  through  yon  valley  the  stormy  fight? 
What  sabres  are  yonder  clashing? 
There  th'  wild-hearted  warriors  strike  for  their 
right  — 

There  the  sparks  of  Freedom  burst  free  to  light, 
Till  they  blaze  up  in  blood-flames  flashing! 
Should  ye  ask  who  that  band  of  black  troopers  are. 
That  is  Lutzow's  Chase,  the  wild  Yagers  of  war! 

In  his  last  sun-light  yonder  who  gasping  lies, 

Corpse-pillowed  by  ranks  he  has  shivered? 

Death  heavily  weighs  on  his  sinking  eyes. 

Yet  his  stout  heart  quails  not  — he  gladly  dies. 

For  his  Fatherland  is  delivered! 

Should  ye  ask  who  those  black  dying  warriors  are, 

That  was  Lutzow's  Chase,  the  wild  Yagers  of  war. 

Our  own  wild  Chase,  't  is  our  German  Chase, 
'Gainst  the  Tyrant's  blood,  the  Oppressor! 
Then  each  who  beloves  us  dries  tears  from  her 

face,  ^ 
When  our  Land  is  once  freed,  and  day  fair  in 

night's  place. 
Though  our  death  have  won  Freedom  to  bless  her; 
Ai;i,d  from  sons  down  to  sons  shall  our  names  be 

told  far  — 

That  was  Lutzow's  Chase — the  wild  Yagers  of 
war! 


Ibid. 


118 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

Good  night 
To  the  weary  slumbers  light. 
Day  draws  softly  to  its  close. 
Busy  hands  now  seek  repose, 
Till  awakes  the  morning  bright. 

Good  night ! 

Seek  repose. 
Weary  eyelids  gently  close, 
Still,  more  still  the  lonely  street. 
The  watchman's  horn  sounds  far  and  sweet, 
And  the  night  bids  friend  and  foes 
'  Seek  repose ! ' 

Slumber  sweet ! 
Dreams  of  heaven  around  theo^meeV; 
Him  whom  love  torments  by  day 
Shall  the  dreams  of  ni^t  repay  3 
Him  the  loved  one's  voice  shall  greet 
'  Slumber  sweet.' 

.    Good  night, 
Slumber  till  the  day  da\Yns  bright, 
Slumber  till  another  morrow 
Comes  with  all  its  care  and  sorrow  — 
Our  father  watches  —  fear  takes  flight. 
Good  night !  —  Good  night ! 

Ibid. 


119 


TO  MRS.  HEMANS. 

FROM   THE   FATHER  OF   THEODORE  KORNER. 

Gently,  a  voice  from  afar  is  borne  to  the  ear  of 

the  mourner  ; 
Mildly  it  soundeth  —  yet  strong,  grief  in  his  bosom 

to  soothe  ; 

Strong  in  the  soul-cheering  faith,  that  hearts  have 

a  share  in  his  sorrow, 
In  whose  depths,  all  things  holy  and  noble  are 

shrined. 

From  that  land,  once  dearly  beloved  by  our  brave 

one  —  the  fallen. 
Mourning  blent  with  bright  fame — cometh  a 

wreath  for  his  urn. 
Hail  to  thee,  England  the  free!  thou  seest  in  the 

German  no  stranger ! 
Over  the  earth  and  the  seas,  joined  be  both  lands, 

heart  and  hand ! 


120 


BRANDENBURGH  HARVEST  SONG. 

The  corn,  in  golden  light, 
Waves  o'er  the  plain  ; 

The  sickle's  gleam  is  bright ; 
Full  swells  the  grain. 

Now  send  we  far  around 

Our  harvest  lay !  — 
Alas !  a  heavier  sound 

Comes  o'er  the  day! 

Earth  shrouds  with  burial  sod 

Her  soft  eye's  blue, — 
Now  o'er  the  gifts  of  God 

Fall  tears  like  dew  ! 

On  every  breeze  a  knell 

The  hamlets  pour, — 
We  know  its  cause  too  well, 

She  is  no  more ! 


La  Motte  Fouq,ue. 


121 


BATH-SONG  TO  SING  IN  THE  SOUND. 
I. 

Mild  zephyrs  are  streaming, 
The  sun  is  still  beaming, 

And  sparkles  the  wave  ; 
It  looks  so  alluring, 
The  coolness  securing, 

Our  limbs  let  us  lave. 

II. 

Here,  where  either  ocean, 
Like  armies  in  motion. 

Are  met  in  the  plain  ; 
We  ^11  plunge  through  the  billow. 
And  floating  we  '11  pillow 

Our  heads  on  the  main. 

III. 

Though  Titan  be  sinking. 
The  sea-nyrnphs  are  winking. 

And  proffer  their  kiss. 
The  moon  is  arising, 
Nor  shames  at  surprising 

Our  innocent  bliss. 

IV. 

O'er  glittering  surged 
The  calm  swimmer  urges 
His  wanderings  soon: 


122 


O  exquisite  pleasure ! 
To  bathe  at  our  leisure. 

With  sun  and  with  moon. 


Stolberg. 


123 


THE  WANDERER. 

I  COME  down  from  the  Hills  alone. 
Mist  wraps  the  vale,  the  billows  moan  ; 
I  wander  on  in  thoughtful  care, 
For  ever  asking,  sighing  —  Where  7 

The  sunshine  round  seems  dim  and  cold, 
And  flowers  are  pale,  and  life  is  old, 
And  words  fall  soulless  on  my  ear,— 

—  Oh !  I  am  still  a  stranger  here. 

Where  art  thou,  Land,  sweet  Land,  mine  own? 
Still  sought  for,  longed  for,  never  known? 
The  Land,  the  Land  of  Hope,  of  Light, 
Where  glow  my  Roses  freshly  bright. 
And  where  my  friends  the  green  paths  tread. 
And  where  in  beauty  rise  my  Dead, 
The  Land  that  speaks  my  native  speech. 
The  blessed  Land  I  may  not  reach ! 

I  wander  on  in  thoughtful  care. 
For  ever  asking,  sighing —  Where  7 
And  Spirit-sounds  come  answering  this 

—  "  There,  where  thou  art  noty  there  is  bliss!" 

Schmidt  von  Lubeck. 


124 


THE  MAY  LILIES  TO  ADELAIDE. 

Faded  are  our  sister  flowers. 

Faded  all  and  gone  ; 
In  the  meadows,  in  the  bowers. 

We  are  left  alone  ; 
Dark  above  our  valley  lowers 

That  funereal  sky. 
And  the  thick  and  chilling  showers 

Now  come  blighting. by. 

Drooping  stood  we  in  the  strife. 

Pale  and  tempest-shaken, 
Weeping  that  our  love  and  life 

Should  at  once  be  taken : 
Wishing,  while  w^ithin  its  cover 

Each  wan  flower  withdrew, 
That  like  those  whose  life  was  over. 

We  had  withered  too. 

But  the  air  a  soothing  ditty 

Whispered  silently  j 
How  that  love  and  gentlest  pity 

Still  abode  with  thee  ; 
How  thy  very  presence,  ever 

Shed  a  sunny  glow,  — 
And  where  thou  wert  smiling,  never 

Tears  were  seen  to  flow. 


125 


So  to  thee,  thou  gentle  spirit. 

Are  the  wanderers  come  ; 
Let  the  weak  thy  care  inherit, 

Take  the  trembling  home  ; 
Though  the  bloom  that  did  surround  us 

Withered  with  the  blast. 
Still  the  scent  that  hangs  around  us 

Lives  when  that  hath  passed. 

SCHULTZE. 


126 


SONG. 

Steeds  are  neighing,  swords  are  gleaming, 

Germany's  revenge  is  nigh  ; 
And  the  banners  brightly  streaming 

Wave  us  on  to  victory. 

Rouse  thee,  then,  fond  heart,  and  see 

For  a  time  thy  task  forsaken  ; 
Bear  what  life  hath  laid  on  thee, 

And  forget  what  it  hath  taken ! 


Ibid. 


127 


SONG. 

The  chief  of  the  huntsmen  is  Death,  whose  aim 

Soon  levels  the  brave  and  the  craven  ; 
He  crimsons  the  field  with  the  blood  of  his  game, 

But  the  booty  he  leaves  to  the  raven. 
Like  the  stormy  tempest  that  flies  so  fast. 
O'er  moor  and  mountain  he  gallops  fast ; 
Man  shakes 
And  quakes 
At  his  bugle  blast. 

But  what  boots  it,  my  friends,  from  the  hunter 
to  flee, 

Who  shoots  with  the  shafts  of  the  grave 
Far  better  to  meet  him  thus  manfully, 
The  brave  by  the  side  of  the  brave ! 
And  when  against  us  he  shall  turn  his  brand, 
With  his  face  to  the  foe  let  each  hero  stand. 
And  await 
His  fate 
From  a  hero's  hand. 


Ibid. 


128 


A  FRAGMENT. 

And  now  'tis  o'er  —  the  long-planned  work  is 
done. 

The  last  sad  meed  that  love  and  longing  gave  : 
Beside  thy  bier  the  strain  was  first  begun, 

And  now  I  lay  the  gift  upon  thy  grave. 
The  bliss  —  the  bale,  through  which  my  heart 
■  hath  run, 

Are  mirrored  in  the  story's  mystic  wave  ; 
Take  then  the  song,  that  in  my  bitter  grief 
Hath  been  my  latest  joy,  my  sole  relief. 

As  mariners  that  on  the  flowery  side 

Of  some  fair  coast  have  for  a  time  descended  ; 

And  many  a  town  and  many  a  tower  descried, 
And  many  a  blooming  grove  and  plain  ex- 
tended ; 

Till  borne  again  to  sea  by  wind  and  tide, 

They  see  the  picture-fade,  the  vision  ended  ; — 
So  in  the  darkening  distance  do  I  see 
My  hopes  grow  dim,  my  joy  and  solace  flee. 

Such  as  thou  didst  in  love  and  life  appear, 
In  joy,  in  grief,  in  pleasure,  and  in  pain, 

Such  have  I  strove  in  words  to  paint  thee  here, 
And  link  thy  beauties  with  my  lowly  strain. 

Still  as  I  sang,  thy  form  was  floating  near. 
And  hand  in  hand  with  thee,  the  goal  I  gain  ; 

Alas,  that  with  the  wreath  that  binds  my  brow. 

My  visionary  bliss  must  vanish  now! 


129 


Three  years  in  that  fond  dream  have  fleeted  by, 
For,  though  the  tetnpest  of  the  time  was  rife, 

And  rising  at  the  breath  of  destiny, 

Through  peace  and  war  hath  borne  my  bark  of 
life, 

I  heeded  not  how  clouds  grew  dark  on  high, 

How  beat  against  the  bark  the  waters'  strife  ; 
Still  in  the  hour  of  need,  unchangeably 
The  compass  of  my  spirit  turned  to  thee. 

While  time  rolled  on  with  ever  changing  tide, 
Thou  wert  the  star,  the  sun  that  shone  for  me  ; 

For  thee  I  girt  the  sword  upon  my  side  ; 

Each  dream  of  peace  was  consecrate  to  thee  ; 

And  if  my  heart  was  long  and  deeply  tried, 
For  thee  alone  I  bore  my  misery  ; 

Watching  lest  autumn  with  his  chilling  breath 

Should  blight  the  rose  above  thy  couch  of  death. 

Ah  me!   since  thou  hast  gained  thy  heavenly 
throne, 

And  I,  no  more  by  earthly  ties  controlled, 
Have  shunned  life's  giddy  joys,  with  thee  alone 

Sad  fellowship  in  solitude  to  hold  j  — 
Full  many  a  faithless  friend  is  changed  and  gone. 

Full  many  a  heart  that  once  was  warm  grown 
cold. 

All  this  have  I  for  thee  in  silence  borne. 
And  joyed  to  bear,  as  on  a  brighter  morn. 

J 


130 


As  vasesj  once  with  costly  scents  supplied, 
Long  after  shed  around  their  sweet  perfume  ; 

As  clouds  the  evening  sun  with  gold  hath  dyed, 
Gleam  brightly  yet  while  all  around  is  gloom  ; 

As  the  strong  river  bears  its  freshening  tide 
Far  out  into  the  ocean's  azure  room  ; 

Forlorn  and  bruised,  the  heart  that  once  hath  beat 

For  thee,  can  feel  no  anger  and  no  hate." 

Ibid. 


131 


THE  PASSAGE. 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave, 
Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave, 
And  the  evening  fair  as  ever, 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock  arid  river. 

Then  in  this  same  boat  beside 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried  ; 
One  with  all  a  father's  truth, 
One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form. 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

So  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 

Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 

Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me. 

Friends  that  closed  their  course  before  me. 

But  what  hinds  us  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore, 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more. 

Take,  O  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee. 

Take,  I  give  it  willingly, 

For  invisible  to  thee 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 

Uhland. 


132  a 


The  following  beautiful  translation  has  received  a 
place  apart  from  the  others,  since  it  was  handed  to  the 
compiler,  after  the  sheets  had  gone  to  press.  It  is  from 
the  pen  of  the  friend,  who  had  the  kindness  to  translate 
the  "  Lost  Church,"  pubhshed  in  the  Stranger's  Gift, 
and  affords  another  proof  with  how  kindred  a  spirit  the 
translator  enters  into  the  productions  of  our  poets. 

On  Christmas  eve  it  is  customary,  in  many  parts  of 
Germany,  to  adorn  the  branch  of  a  pine  tree  with  lighted 
tapefrs  and  various  gifts,  and  to  surround  it  with  tables, 
on  which  the  presents  tor  th^  different  members  of  the 
family  are  arranged.  In  passing  through  the  streets  it 
often  happens  that  several  scenes  of  this  kind  are  seen 
at  once  through  the  windows. 

Christinkle,  a  term  which  is  used  in  Pennsylvania  and 
New  Jersey,  is  a  corruption  of  the  German  Christkindlein. 
It  means  the  child  Christ,  to  whom  it  is  thought  all  these 
gifts  are  owing. 


THE  FORLORN  CHILD'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

How  bird-like  o'er  the  flakes  of  snow 

Its  fairy  footsteps  flew  ; 
And  on  its  soft  and  childish  brow 

How  delicate  the  hue ! 

And  expectation  wings  its  feet, 

And  stirs  its  infant  smile  ; 
The  merry  bells  their  chime  repeat ; 

The  chil4  stands  still  the  while. 


132  6 


Then  clasps  in  joy  its  little  hand  ; 

Then  marks  the  Christian  dome  ; 
The  stranger  child,  in  stranger  land, 

Feels  now  as  if  at  home. 

It  runs  along  the  sparkling  ground  ; 

Its  face  with  gladness  beams  ; 
It  frolics  in  the  blaze  around, ' 

Which  from  each  window  gleams. 

The  shadows  dance  upon  the  wall, 

Reflected  from  the  trees  ; 
And  from  the  branches,  green  and  tall, 

The  glittering  gifts  it  sees. 

It  views  within  the  lighted  hall 
The  charm  of  social  love  ; 

Oh!  what  a  joyous  festival, 

'T  is  sanctioned  from  above. 

But  now  the  childish  heart 's  unstrung  — 

"  Where  is  my  taper's  light? 
And  why  no  evergreen  been  hung. 
With  toys  for  me  to-night  ? 

"  In  my  sweet  home  there  was  a  band 
Of  holy  love  for  me  ; 
A  mother's  kind  and  tender  hand 

Once  decked  my  Christmas  tree. 

"  Oh  some  one  take  me  'neath  the  blaze 
Of  those  light  tapers,  do  j 


132  c 


And,  children,  I  can  feel  the  plays, 
Oh  let  me  play  with  you. 

"  I  care  not  for  the  prettiest  toy  ; 
I  want  the  love  of  home  ; 
Oh  let  me  in  your  playful  joy 
Forget  I  have  to  roam." 

The  little  fragile  hand  is  raised, 

It  strikes  at  every  gate  ; 
In  every  window  earnest  gazed, 

Then  'mid  the  snow  it  sate. 

"  Christinkle  !  thou,  the  children's  friend, 
I 've  none  to  love  me  now  ; 
Hast  thou  forgot  my  tree  to  send, 
With  lights  on  every  bough?  " 

The  baby's  hands  are  numbed  with  frost, 

Yet  press  the  little  cloak  ; 
Then  on  its  breast  in  meekness  crost, 

A  sigh  the  silence  broke. 

And  closer  still  the  cloak  it  drew 

Around  its  silken  hair  ; 
Its  pretty  eyes,  so  clear  and  blue, 

Alone  defied  the  air. 

Then  came  another  pilgrim  child, 

A  shining  light  he  held  ; 
The  accents  fell  so  sweet  and  mild, 

All  music  they  excelled. 


132  d 


I  am  thy  Christmas  friend,  indeed, 
And  once  a  child  like  thee  ; 

When  all  forget,  thou  need'st  not  plead, 
I  will  adorn  thy  tree. 

"My  joys  are  felt  in  street  or  bower, 
My  aid  is  every  where  ; 
Thy  Christmas  tree,  my  precious  flower. 
Here,  in  the  open  air, 

"  Shall  far  outshine  those  other  trees. 
Which  caught  thy  infant  eye." 
The  stranger  child  looks  up,  and  sees 
Far,  in  the  deep  blue  sky, 

A  glorious  tree,  and  stars  among 

The  branches  hang  their  light ; 
The  child,  with  soul  all  music,  sung 
"  My  tree  indeed  is  bright." 

As  'neath  the  power  of  a  dream 

The  infant  closed  its  eyes  ; 
And  troops  of  radiant  angels  seem 

Descending  from  the  skies. 

The  baby  to  its  Christ  they  bear  ; 

With  Jesus  it  shall  live  ; 
It  finds  a  home  and  treasure  there 

Sweeter  than  earth  can  give. 

Fr.  RiiCKERT. 


NOTES. 


FRIEDRICH  GOTTLIEB  KLOPSTOCK. 

Klopstock  was  born  at  Quedlinburg,  in  the  year 
1724;  from  1739  to  1743  he  was  educated  at  the  then 
highly  celebrated  academy,  the  Schulpforte;  he  after- 
wards studied  theology  at  Jena  and  Leipzig,  where  he 
partly  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Cramer,  Ebert,  Schmidt, 
and  other  members  of  the  literary  society  to  which  they 
belonged.  In  1748  he  went  in  the  capacity  of  private 
tutor  to  Langensalza  in  Thuringia,  and  there  met  with 
Fanny,  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  sister  of  his  friend 
Schmidt.  His  affection  not  being  returned,  he  became  a 
prey  to  a  deep  melancholy.  Change  of  scene  and  several 
years  occupied  in  travel  did  not  fail,  however,  to  produce 
a  beneficial  influence  on  the  state  of  both  his  heart  and 
mind. 

The  first  Cantos  of  his  Messiah  made  a  great  impres- 
sion throughout  all  Germany,  and  created  so  extraordinary 
a  sensation  in  Switzerland,  that  Bodmer  and  several  other 
learned  men  invited  our  poet  to  visit  that  country. 
Klopstock-accepted  the  invitation,  and  in  1750  set  out  tor 
Zurich,  where  he  received  a  hearty  welcome  from  his 
Swiss  admirers,  especially  from  Bodmer,  in  whose  house 
he  resided  for  nine  months. 


134 


When  on  the  eve  of  returning  to  Germany,  he  received 
an  invitation  from  Frederick  V.,  king  of  Denmark,  to 
repair  to  Copenhagen,  accompanied  by  the  offer  of  an 
annuity.  In  that  capital  Klopstock  passed  some  of  the 
happiest  years  of  his  life,  living  in  retirement,  but  honor- 
ed with  many  marks  of  favor  and  esteem  by  his  royal 
patron.  This  epoch  too  was  not  less  fortunate  for  the 
world,  since  it  was  the  date  of  some  of  the  noblest  pro- 
ductions of  his  muse. 

When  his  friend,  the  minister  Bernstorf,  received  his 
dismissal,  Klopstock  went  for  a  year  to  Karlsruhe,  at  the 
instance  of  Frederick,  elector  of  Baden,  and  returned 
from  thence  to  Hamburg.  He  had  been  married  in  this 
city  in  the  summer  of  1754,  and  made  it  his  residence 
during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  He  died  the  14th  of 
March,  1803. 

The  Messiah  of  which  there  has  been  no  satisfactory 
translation  into  English  is  full  of  beautiful  passages.  As 
a  writer  of  Odes,  Klopstock  has  hardly  been  surpassed. 


JOHANN  GOTTFRIED  VON  HERDER. 

Herder  was  born,  August  25,  1724,  at  Mohrungen, 
a  small  place  in  Eastern  Prussia.  His  intellectual  pro- 
gress, obstructed  by  the  narrow  views  of  his  father, 
received  a  new  impulse  from  the  fact  that  the  clergyman 
of  the  place,  who  had  discovered  his  talents,  allowed  him 
to  participate  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  lessons,  which  he 
gave  to  his  own  children.  A  serious  disease  of  the  eyes 
became  the  cause  of  his  becoming  acquainted  with  a 


135 


Russian  surgeon,  who  offered  to  take  Herder  with  him  to 
Konigsberg  and  to  Petersburg,  and  to  teach  him  surgery 
gratuitously.  Having  fainted  in  Konigsberg  at  the  first 
dissection  at  which  he  was  present,  he  resolved  to  study 
theology.  In  the  mean  time  he  obtained  a  place  of  tutor 
in  Frederic's  College,  which  left  him  time  for  study,  and 
afforded  him  an  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with 
Kant  and  Hamann.  With  unrelaxing  zeal  he  occupied  him- 
self with  the  most  various  branches  of  science,  theology, 
philology,  natural  and  civil  history,  and  politics.  In  1764 
he  was  appointed  an  assistant  teacher  at  the  cathedral 
school  at  Riga,  with  which  office  that  of  a  preacher  was 
connected.  He  gave  up  this  office,  and  declined  another 
advantageous  offer,  because  he  wished  to  study  the  arts 
in  their  sources,  and  men  on  the  stage  of  life.  Having 
become  travelling  tutor  to  the  prince  of  Holstein  Olden- 
burg, he  was  prevented  in  Strasburg  from  proceeding,  by 
the  disease  of  bis  eyes,  which  had  returned,  and  there 
became  acquainted  with  Gothe.  Herder  had  then  pub- 
lished his  Fragments  on  German  literature,  his  Critical 
Woods,  and  other  pi-oductions  which  had  gained  him  a. 
considerable  reputation.  Whilst  in  Strasburg  he  accepted 
an  invitation  to  become  court-preacher,  superintendent, 
and  consistorial  counsellor  at  Biickeburg.  He  soon  made 
himself  known  as  a  distinguished  theologian.  In  1776 
he  went  to  Weimar  in  the  capacity  of  court-preacher, 
general  superintendent,  and  consistorial  counsellor. 
It  was  at  the  time  when  the  duke  Augustus  and  the 
princess  Amalia  had  collected  many  of  the  most  distin- 
guished German  literati  at  their  court.  In  1801  he  was 
made  president  of  the  high  consistory,  and  subsequently 
made  a  noble  by  the  elector  of  Bavaria.  He  died  De- 
cember 18,  1803. 


136 


As  a  theologian  Herder  contributed  principally  to~a 
better  understanding  of  the  historical  and  antiquarian  part 
of  the  Old  Testament.  He  did  much  for  the  better 
acquaintance  with  the  classical  authors,  whilst  his  philo- 
sophical views  of  human  character  are  full  of  instruction. 
He  contributed  much  to  a  more  active  study  of  nature, 
brought  before  the  public  the  poetry  of  past  times  of 
Europe  and  Asia,  and  awakened  a  taste  for  national 
songs ;  in  regard  to  poetry,  however,  he  effected  more  by 
his  various  accomplishments,  his  vast  knowledge  and  fine 
taste,  than  by  creative  power.  His  greatest  work  is  his 
"  Ideas  concerning  the  philosophy  of  the  history  of  man- 
kind." —  We  find  in  it  all  the  light  of  his  great  mind 
concentrated. 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOTHE. 

GoTHE  was  born  the  28th  of  August,  1749,  at  Frank- 
fort on  the  Maine,  of  respectable  and  wealthy  parents. 
Their  son's  improvement  was  the  primary  object  of  their 
care.  In  the  public  school  of  his  native  town  young 
Gothe  evinced  great  proofs  of  genius.  He  applied  him- 
self to  the  study  of  the  law  for  three  years  at  Leipzig, 
and  took  the  degree  of  LL.D.  at  Strasburg.  Three 
years  after  this  event  he  made  a  tour  in  Switzerland,  in 
company  with  the  two  counts  Stolberg,  the  poets,  and 
the  well-known  Prussian  minister,  Count  Haugwitz,  In 
the  course  of  this  tour,  he  met  with  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Saxe  Weimar,  Charles  Augustus,  who  was  so  prepos- 
sessed in  his  favor  by  his  agreeable  manners  and  great 


137 


talents,  that  he  invited  him  to  Weimar.  The  invitation 
was  readily  accepted,  and  in  that  town  Gothe  remained 
to  the  end  of  his  life.  Loaded  with  honors  and  dignities 
by  his  prince,  admired,  nay,  almost  adored  by  his  coun- 
trymen, and  possessing  a  competence  which  rendered 
exertion  a  matter  of  choice  and  not  of  necessity,  Gothe 
devoted  nearly  the  whole  of  his  time  to  literary  labors. 
He  died  the  22d  of  March,  1832. 

In  his  "  Wanderer"  as  well  as  in  other  poems  Gothe, 
in  the  language  of  a  modern  writer,  "  exhibits  the  spirit 
of  ancient  literature  in  a  degree  which  probably  no  mod- 
ern poet  of  any  nation  has  reached,  as  the  resemblance 
is  not  merely  in  the  form  but  in  the  very  conception  of 
the  ideas. 

The  song  on  p.  10  is  translated  from  Wilhelm  Meister's 
Apprenticeship.  It  contains  the  reminiscences  of  Mignon, 
an  Italian  girl,  who  when  a  little  child  was  stolen  from 
her  parents  by  gipsies.  It  is  addressed  to  Wilhelm 
Meister,  who  had  become  her  protector. 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER. 

Schiller  was  born  on  the  10th  of  November,  1759, 
at  Marbach,  in  Wirtemberg,  where  his  father  then  held 
a  Lieutenant's  commission  in  the  Duke's-service.  Schil- 
ler gave  early  indications  of  an  uncommonly  vivid 
imagination.  Next  to  the  wish  of  his  parents,  it  was 
partly  owing  to  the  sacred  poetry  of  Klopstock,  that  he 
determined  to  make  divinity  his  profession  for  life,  a 
resolution,  however,  which  he  changed  in  consequence 


138 


of  his  having  entered  the  military  academy  founded  by 
the  Duke.  He  now  apphed  himself  to  the  study  of 
medicine.  After  having  incurred  the  Duke's  displeasure 
by  the  publication  of  the  Robbers,  a  work  which  he  had 
composed  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  he  left  secretly  his 
service  and  went  to  Manheim.  After  having  produced 
there  his  Fiesco  and  his  Kabale  und  Liebc  he  succes- 
sively changed  his  residence  to  Dresden,  Leipzig,  and 
Weimar.  Having  obtained  in  1789  a  professorship  of 
philosophy  at  Jena,  Schiller  greatly  distinguished  himself 
by  the  lectures  which  he  delivered  from  that  chair.  In 
1790  he  married.  The  French  republic  at  the  beginning 
of  the  revolution  conferred  on  him  the  rights  of  citizen- 
ship, and  the  emperor  of  Germany  ennobled  him  in  1802. 
Incessant  study  protracted  far  into  the  night,  and  the  use 
of  stimulants,  undermined  his  health.  In  1793  he  formed 
the  plan  of  publishing,  \i'ith  the  cooperation  of  the  first 
writers  of  Germany,  the  HorcB.  He  became  more  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  Gothe,  returned  with  renewed 
ardor  to  poetry,  and  produced  particularly  after  1795,  the 
finest  lyrical  poems  which  appeared  in  the  Hora  and  in 
his  Almanac  of  the  Muses  (first  number  in  1796).  His 
Wallenstein  was  completed  in  1799.  From  that  time  he 
lived  in  Weimar,  where,  in  1800  and  1801,  Maria  Stuart 
and  the  Maid  of  Orleans  were  produced.  In  1803  ap- 
peared the  Bride  of  Messina,  and  his  last  dramatic  work, 
William  Tell.  After  attending  a  representation  of  this 
play  at  Berlin,  where  he  was  received  with  much  honor, 
he  died  at  Weimar,  May  9,  1805,  only  forty-six  years  old, 
mourned  by  all 'Germany. 

Tschudi  who  has  furnished  the  foundation  for  The 
Count  of  Hapsburg,  on  p.  34,  further  relates,  that  "  the 
priest  to  whom  this  incident  with  Rudolph  occurred 


139 


afterwards  became  chaplain  to  the  archbishop  of  Mentz ; 
and  at  the  first  imperial  election  which  followed  the 
interregnum  contributed  not  a  little  to  turn  the  prelate's 
thoughts  on  the  Count  of  Hapsburg." 

The  Elective  Seven  referred  to  in  the  first  stanza  are 
the  seven  princes,  who  exercised  the  right  of  filling  the 
imperial  throne.  They  were  the  archbishops  of  Mentz, 
Trier,  and  Cologne,  the  elector  palatine,  Brandenburg, 
Bohemia,  and  Saxony. 

The  Song  of  Thekla  on  page  39,  translated  by  Mrs. 
Hiemans,  was  partly  intended  to  satisfy  the  questionings 
of  those,  M^ho  felt  a  melancholy  interest  in  her  fate  after 
she  has  left  the  house  of  Wallenstein  her  father,  to  visit 
the  remains  of  her  lover. 

The  fragment  on  page  49  is  taken  from  Schiller's 
Mary  Stuart.  After  a  long  and  close  confinement  she 
has  suddenly  received  permission  to  enter  the  garden 
near  Fotheringhay  Castle. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 

RiCHTER  was  born  the  21st  of  March,  1763,  at  Wun- 
siedel  in  the  Fichtelgebirge.  His  father  was  then  rector 
at  Wunsiedel,  and  at  a  later  period  pastor  at  Schwarzbach 
on  the  Saale.  In  1780  Richter  entered  the  University  of 
Leipsic,  in  order  to  study  theology,  but  soon  changed  his 
plan  and  devoted  himself  to  belles-lettres.  As  early  as 
1798,  he  was  known  as  a  distinguished  writer  at  Leipsic. 
He  went  to  Weimar,  Berlin,  Meiningen,  &c.  and  settled 
at  Baireuth,  having  been  made  counsellor  of  legation  by 


140 


the  duke  of  Saxe-Hildburghausen,  and  having  received 
from  the  prince  primate  a  pension,  which  the  king  of 
Bavaria  continued  after  Baireuth  had  fallen  to  him.  He 
had  married  during  his  early  stay  in  BerUn,  and  had  two 
daughters.  His  death  corresponded  with  his  life ;  he 
calmly  fell  asleep  on  the  14th  of  November,  1825.  His 
works  on  education  and  on  philosophy  place  him  high  in 
those  departments,  and  it  is  to  be  greatly  regretted  that  in 
our  country  is  generally  known  only  by  his  beautiful 
dreams,  and  those  works  which  are  —  emphatically  speak- 
ing—  the  product  of  the  imagination.  We  refrain  from 
giving  the  titles  of  his  work,  since  they  hardly  permit  the 
reader  to  judge  of  their  contents. 


FRIEDRICH  ADOLPH  KRUMMACHER. 

Krummacher  was  born  on  the  13th  of  July,  1768, 
at  Tecklenburg  in  Westphalia.  After  having  occupied 
for  some  time  a  theological  chair  in  the  University  of 
Duisburg,  he  was  stationed  successively  as  a  Preacher  in 
different  parts  of  Germany.  At  present  he  has  the  charge 
of  a  congregation  in  Bremen.  By  his  "Parables"  he 
meant  not  merely  to  communicate  practical  truth  in  the 
form  of  a  poetical  dress,  but  rather  to  elevate  man  from 
the  natural  world  to  that  which  is  above  it ;  to  lead  him 
to  the  author  of  his  being. 


141 


JOHANN  WILHELM  LUDWIG  GLEIM. 

Gleim  was  born  at  Ermsleben,  a  small  town  in  the 
principality  of  Halberstadt,  April  2,  1719.  In  1738  he 
went  to  the  University  of  Halle,  after  having  been  main- 
tained up  to  that  time  by  charitable  persons.  He  became 
the  intimate  friend  of  Kleist,  another  German  poet,  and 
after  many  vicissitudes  of  fortune  was  appointed  secretary 
of  the  Cathedral  Chapter  of  Halberstadt.  He  acquired 
the  greatest  reputation  by  his  martial  songs,  which  ap- 
peared under  the  name  and  in  the  character  of  an  old 
grenadier,  at  the  time  when  Frederic  the  Great  filled  all 
Europe  with  the  fame  of  his  achievements. 


JOHANN  GEORG  JACOBI. 

Jacobi,  born  at  DOsseldorf,  1740,  was  the  son  of 
wealthy  parents.  He  studied  theology  in  Gottingen  and 
Helmstadt,  and  afterwards  became  a  professor  of  philoso- 
phy in  the  j;University  of  Halle,  where  he  pubhshed  a 
periodical  for  Ladies.  Having  been  appointed  by  Joseph 
II.  professor  of  belles-lettres  in  the  University  of  Frey- 
burg  in  Brisgau,  he  published  there  another  periodical. 
He  died  January  4,  1814. 


142 


CHRISTIAN  ADOLPH  OVERBECK. 

OvERBECK  was  bom  in  1755  at  Lobeck.  His  pro- 
ductions, but  few  in  number,  consist  chiefly  of  Lyric 
poems.  He  is  still  a  resident  in  his  native  town,  and  has 
attained  the  rank  of  senator. 


GOTTFRIED  AUGUST  BURGER. 

Burger,  born  January  1st,  1748,  at  Wolmerswende, 
near  Halberstadt,  studied  theology  at  the  University  of 
Halle.  Here  his  imprudence  and  irregularity  of  conduct 
caused  his  grandfather,  on  whom  he  depended,  to  with- 
draw from  him  his  assistance  and  protection.  His  inti- 
macy with  Holtz,  Voss,  and  Count  Stolberg  now  led  him 
to  follow  their  example  in  studying  the  ancient  classics, 
and  the  best  works  in  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  and 
English.  Percy's  Relics  was  his  constant  companion. 
In  1772  he  at  length  obtained  a  permanent  though  small 
office,  and  by  a  reconciliation  with  his  grandfather,  a 
sum,  for  the  payment  of  his  debts,  which  he  unfortunately 
lost,  and  in  consequence  of  it  during  the  rest  of  his  life 
was  involved  in  pecuniary  difficulties.  His  marriage  in 
1774  became  a  source  of  still  greater  misfortunes.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  obliged  by  intrigues  to  resign  his 
office.  He  was  then  made  professor  extraordinary  in 
Gottingen,  but  receiving  no  salary  he  was  obliged  to  gain 
a  living  for  himself  and  his  children  by  poorly-rewarded 


143 


translations  for  booksellers.  A  third  marriage  in  1790 
completed  his  misfortunes;  he  was  divorced  from  his 
wife  two  years  afterwards.  He  died  in  179-1,  a  victim  to 
grief  and  misery.  In  spite  of  this  labyrinth  of  misfor- 
tunes he  has  composed  Odes,  Elegies,  Ballads,  and  Epi- 
grams. "  Burger,"  observes  A.  W.  Schlegel,  "  is  a  poet 
of  an  imagination  more  original  than  comprehensive ;  of 
feelings  more  honest  and  candid,  than  tender  and  delicate. 
He  is  more  successful  in  the  execution,  than  in  the  in- 
vention of  his  plan ;  more  at  home  in  romance,  than  in 
the  lofty  regions  of  the  Lyric  Muse." 


THEODOR  KORNER. 

KoRNER  was  born  in  1791.  After  having  studied 
mining  at  Freyburg,  he  went  in  1810  to  the  University 
of  Leipsic,  and  then  to  Vienna,  where  he  wrote  several 
dramas.  In  1813,  when  all  Germany  took  up  arms 
against  Napoleon,  Korner  served  in  the  corps  of  Lutzow, 
a  Prussian  officer.  August  26,  1813,  he  fell  on  the  field 
of  battle  pierced  by  a  ball.  An  iron  monument  shows 
the  place  where  he  rests  under  an  oak  tree,  near  the 
village  of  Wobbelin,  in  Mecklenburg.  His  father  has 
published  thirty- two  of  his  war  songs  under  the  title  of 
Leier  und  Schwert — Lyre  and  Sword.  Many  of  these 
poems  have  been  set  to  music  by  Weber,  and  are  known 
every  where  in  Germany. 

The  lines  on  page  111  were  written  when  he  lay 
heavily  wounded  in  a  wood,  and  believed  himself  at  the 
point  of  death. 


144 


The  dialogue  between  the  trooper  and  his  sword  he 
wrote  a  few  hours  before  his  death. 

The  verses  marked  by  commas  are  the  replies  of  the 
*'  Irox  Bride."  It  is  intended  to  be  sung  during  the 
performance  of  the  sword  exercise  ;  at  each  "  Hurrah  !  " 
the  troopers  clash  their  swords.  —  "  The  word  ^^^orsemen 
(more  properly  the  designation  of  the  Norwegians, 
Swedes,  &.c.)  belongs  to  the  Translator's  English  alone. 
He  uses  it  as  the  nearest  approach  the  measure  allows  to 
the  literal  force  and  fire  of  the  German." 


FRIEDRICH  BARON  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUE. 

FouQTJE  was  born  in  New  Brandenburg,  Feb.  12, 
1777.  He  served  against  the  French  towards  the  end  of 
the  last  century,  and  likewise  in  the  last  war.  iSince 
that  time  he  has  been  actively  employed  in  writing 
romances  and  novels.  In  his  works,  which  manifest 
talent,  but  want  versatility,  he  shows  an  undue  love  and 
admiration  of  the  feudal  ages. 

His  song  on  page  120  refers  to  the  death-day  of  Louisa, 
Queen  of  Prussia ;  a  name  which  even  at  the  present 
day  fills  with  sadness  the  heart  of  every  true  German. 


FRIEDRICH  LEOPOLD  VON  STOLBERG. 


Stolberg  was  born  November  7,  1750,  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Bramstedt  in  Holstein.    In  the  year  1800  he 


145 


resigned  all  the  high  offices  which  he  then  held,  and 
together  with  his  whole  family,  except  his  eldest  daugh- 
ter, renounced  the  Protestant  religion  for  the  Roman 
Catholic.    Since  that  event  he  has  resided  at  Monster. 


GEORG  PHILIPP  SCHMIDT  VON  LUEBECK. 

Schmidt  vojv  Luebeck  was  born  January  1,  1766. 
He  studied  in  Jena  and  Gottingen,  and  at  different  periods 
of  his  life  occupied  high  stations  under  the  Danish  gov- 
ernment. He  now  has  retired  from  public  activity,  and 
resides  at  Altona,  Besides  his  songs  he  has  written 
"  Historical  Studies,"  and  several  smaller  works. 


ERNST  CONRAD  FRIEDRICH  SCHULTZE. 

ScHULTZE  was  born  at  Celle,  March  22,  1789.  He 
studied  at  Gottingen,  where  he  soon  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  Bouterweck,  and  where  he  likewise  became  ac- 
quainted with  Cecilia.  She  died  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
and  "  with  her  disappeared  the  cheerfulness  which  had 
hitherto  distinguished  her  lover."  He  then  began  the 
poem  which  was  to  celebrate  her  memory,  but  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  war  against  France,  in  which  he  took 
an  active  part.  He  afterwards  returned  to  Gottingen, 
and  completed  the  poem  of  which  the  fragment  on  page 
128  contains  the  concluding  stanzas.  Grace  rather  than 
K 


146 


power  is  the  characteristic  of  his  miscellaneous  poems. 
He  died  June  22d,  1817. 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND. 

Uhlan-d  was  bom  in  1787  at  Tubingen,  where  he 
studied  law  from  1805  to  1808.  In  1815,  when  a  great 
political  excitement  prevailed  throughout  Wirtemberg, 
Uhland's  patriotic  songs  became  very  popular,  and  con- 
tributed to  strengthen  the  prevailing  spirit.  «*  In  1809 
he  was  elected  a  representative  of  Tubingen,  and  has  we 
believe  ever  since  continued  in  the  chamber." 


THE  END. 


ERRATA. 


Page  4,  line  8,  for  free-thinker's  read  free-thinkers' 
"  98,   "  11,  "        laugh         "  laughs 


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